


Sex By the Chapter

by Fiddlehoo



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, First Time, Kissing, M/M, Slow Build, Some chapters are plot with porn others are porn with plot, These are gonna accumulate with more chapters, Threesome, Violent Sex, sexual fantasies, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2018-10-04 10:06:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 68,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10274489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiddlehoo/pseuds/Fiddlehoo
Summary: Let's throw Stingue in a bunch of alternate universes.





	1. Renaissance

**Author's Note:**

> The medieval speech is on and off depending on the mood of the moment. I also tried to give characters with higher authority in the story a heavier dose if it, even if it doesn't go with their status or personality in Fairy Tail. I was trying to be historically accurate more than anything. That's probably a lie. I don't know. Bye.

            Keeping his arms as steady as possible, Cheney carried his latest hat up the workshop corridor to the front. He had finally made that stubborn bump at the top flatten, and now it was perfect for the finest lord's lady. This hat was of the newest fashion; small, round, and flat. Much like a cylinder, so the tassels could drape over the sides and rest at the lady's shoulders. It was in high demand, which meant at least five people wanted it.

            Sir Dragneel's haberdashery was steadily losing attention over the past months. By then, they only had two or three customers per week. That is, before the cylinder hat. Sir Dragneel only vended lord's hats but his assistant, Sir Happy, thought that by providing for lords' ladies as well, they could make more profit. Of course, this was not a hattery, so they had to advertise in the square to draw in more customers. Traditionally, haberdasheries sold things for sewing; pins, thread, measuring ropes, spools, as well as pre-made men's hats -for those who needed a bit of inspiration. However, these things weren't selling anymore.

            Located in the commoner district, this haberdashery only sold to nobles. So hardly anyone could afford the fancy supplies, which Cheney suspected to be one of the leading reasons they weren't doing so well. But he respected Sir Dragneel's trade, and Cheney was crafting his very best to help increase the number of customers.

            _"There are plenty of lords in the area," Sir Dragneel was sure. "They just don't have any more room in their closets for more hats."_

            That was always the excuse. Cheney supposed it was possible.

            He headed round one of the high shelves and rested the hat on one of the straw weaved mannequin heads, which degraded the products they displayed. Sir Dragneel and his assistant were saving their makings for wooden models, even if it meant going without food. What was a lord's haberdashery with peasant equipment?

            He backed up until he could see passed the shelf and looked out the window. The cathedral's shadow had ventured up the buildings across the square, it was getting late. It was about time the flow of people into the shop dropped from maybe two to none at all. Cheney went across the room to start working on closing the windows. He'd make his way round, shut the front door to close up, and then continue shutting the rest of the windows along the wall.

            Sir Dragneel and Sir Happy went out a little bit ago to see if they could bargain a meal from someone. Because of the drop of demand and the saving up plan, the three of them had been sharing rations from the cupboard in the workshop. As of last night they'd run out of potatoes. Cheney couldn't complain; the tartness had grown worse each day the vegetables kept in the dark. He didn't much care for starches, but if Sir Dragneel could find something blander, like cauliflower, he'd be grateful.

            A pair of heavy boots came stomping into the shop, catching Cheney with his arms out to shut the window he was leaning into.

            The apprentice spun round and dusted his hands on his apron. "Can I help you, my lord?"

            This man was younger than their usual customers, possibly his same age. What was more, his dress seemed more thrown-together than planned and tailored. Honestly, he looked like he'd just robbed someone and was hiding under their clothes.

            "I'm looking for a hat." The lord was looking around before, but then his eyes whipped over to look at Cheney.

            "What sort of hat? We carry feathered, square, relaxed-"

            "Any hat," insisted the lord with a quick tongue. "I need a hat."

            Cheney took a random hat and dressed his fist to display it before the lord. "This hat is made from-"

            "It's for my wife." He threw his gaze directly into Cheney's eyes.

            It was a bit threatening, but he doubted the lord could do much of anything with all those layers he was wearing. If that wasn't enough weight, he was also wearing a neck-breaking amount of jewellery.

            He rushed to get a lady's hat, accommodating with the lord's hurry. Perhaps it was a last minute gift, or maybe his wife needed to be calmed down with something expensive and new.

            "Here is our line of-"

            "Can she hide in that?" The lord spoke so fast Cheney could hardly understand him.

            "Would you like me to find something your wife can-"

            "I need a hat she can hide in." His posture seemed slouched and anxious, as if the person he'd just robbed was his wife.

            "We have longer hats with more volume if you'd-"

            "Yes, fine, fine!" He started biting his nails.

            Cheney hurried off to find a longer lady's hat. Why would his wife need to hide? Did he and his wife both steal clothes from people? What business do a lord and lady have stealing when they could simply buy it? This was not a cheap haberdashery; he hoped the lord wasn't planning on stealing this hat. Then, a thought crossed his mind; perhaps while he was off finding hats, the lord was robbing him blind.

            The apprentice ran for the front door with a hard squeeze in his gut, if Sir Dragneel found out they'd been robbed...

            There by the door stood the heavily dressed lord, blond hair gleaming in the reflected light of a mirror behind him. He looked very young, Cheney had to say. Perhaps he had grown accustomed to providing for the older crowd of lords. Knowing they could profit from multiple age groups should've been pleasing. Instead he just felt the lord wandered into the wrong shop.

            Cheney carried their longest hat to the patient customer.

            "Here is our-"

            "Do you have one that can wrap around her face?"

            "Will the wrap be transparent or-"

            "No, it'll be heavy and dark. Do you have that sort of hat?"

            Cheney understood. His wife died, and this was to dress her for her eternal slumber. How exactly did she die? Did someone bash her over the head after she tried to steal something? Did her own husband strangle her? If that were the case, that would explain why the lord was so anxious. He was probably afraid someone saw him kill her. Did this mean he might strike again at any given moment? Would the lord try to strangle him if he gave the lord the wrong hat?

            He brought a full hat before the customer. It looked like a skirt for your head. Cheney was messing around with designs once and crafted this out of pure lack of ideas.

            "How is this?"

            "Fine." The lord stared at it. His eyes were still squinted.

            Cheney thought the customer would stop squinting once he'd been given the proper hat, but he guessed it was wishful thinking.

            "Where is the shopkeeper?"

            "He's out running errands. I'll be taking his place for the rest of today."

            "The whole day?"

            Cheney took a casual step back. "Yes, I will be the only-"

            "You only sell hats?"

            "We also craft buttons, ribbons-"

            "No clothes? No gowns?"

            "I'm sorry, we only sell-"

            "I need, uh..." He turned to look over his shoulder at the street beyond the door, then looked at Cheney. "I need a gown too."

            He was so curious as to why, but asking would be too bold. "I can direct you to the nearest tailory, if y-"

            "You know who works there?"

            "I'm sorry, I hardly leave the shop. The haberdasher might know if you'd like to wai-"

            "No," the lord snapped. "I don't want to talk to that guy."

            Cheney shifted his weight as he tried to think of something to ease the lord's feathers a bit.

            Just like that, the lord began talking again, "Will he be here tomorrow?"

            "Yes, he-"

            "Would you ask him? And then tell me?"

            Cheney tried to understand how that would work. "Are you returning to the haberdashery?"

            "No." After a moment he darted his eyes round something on the floor. So much so that Cheney almost glanced down to see if he was watching something. The lord brought his piercing stare back up to Cheney and continued. "No, I'll be waiting by the cathedral. You can find me there."

            "I'm sorry, I'll need to ask permission to leave."

            "Can't you sneak out or something? I don't want to wait around for you if you're not coming."

            Cheney thought about it. He supposed if it was for a customer, he could keep this exchange under the table. "I can ask him when he gets back, and sneak out to the cathedral tonight."

            The lord's speech died off as he continued, "I didn't bring a light. I'll get lost..." Then he picked up his speech again, "I mean I'll figure something out."

            He came without a horse and wagon? Was he on the run?

            The lord blurted, "Ah ha, I've got it."

            Cheney waited for him to continue, but when he didn't Cheney spoke up. "There's a lantern in the back. I could lend it to you for the night."

            "The information won't be helpful until tomorrow anyway. I'll just wait for you by the cathedral in the morning."

            Cheney blinked. After a pause he reminded the lord, "I'll need to ask permission to leave the shop."

            "How do you not know who works at the gown shop?"

            "I'm not allowed to leave, and I'm new to this town. I don't know anybody except Sir Dragneel and his assistant."

            "Fine, fine!" He said in a slight whisper as he ducked his head, as if he was afraid to get Cheney worked up.

            After a moment of slight panic, Cheney came up with a plan. "Meet me at the worksh-"

            The lord cleared his throat, looking down. "I said I have a way of getting home. I'll meet you out by the cathedral tonight.

            "Yes, my lord." Cheney tried to keep up. "Are you expected to be somewhere tonight?"

            The lord looked up at him in shock, "What?"

            "Will this interfere with anything you have going on?"

            "Oh," he averted his eyes. "No, it's fine. I can wait all night."

            Being so accommodating with a customer was uncomfortable, especially one with a shady attitude. Cheney struggled to think of what else to say. "Will that be all, my lord?"

            "Yeah," he brought a pouch out from under his topmost vest.

            "This hat is twelve soldi. Are you from this kingdom, my lord?"

            "Of course I am!" He roared in frustration, though his eyes appeared frightened.

            The apprentice wasn't convinced. Though they spoke the same language, they didn't share much else. Even the way he dressed himself seemed foreign. By how light his hair was, he must come from over the hills.

            He dropped the pouch into Cheney's open hand.

            The apprentice unwound the string keeping the pouch shut and pulled a soldo out for examination. It looked authentic silver. The Royal Mint's stamp was on it and everything. If the lord wasn't lying, why was he so nervous? Cheney guessed some people had trouble telling the truth.

            So the lord must've moved here from a distant land. Unless he was lying and he'd stolen this money.

            Cheney slipped eleven more soldi out from the pouch and tied the string round it as before. He then handed the lord his newly purchased skirt-hat.

            The lord took his pouch back along with the hat.

            "Many thanks, my lord."

            He turned round and took a step. "Wait," he looked back at Cheney, "How can I trust you?"

            Cheney hesitated, "Why would you need to trust me?"

            "How do I know you won't tell him?"

            "The haberdasher? I won't tell him I'm sneaking out."

            "No," the lord turned all the way round to face Cheney with more intensity. "How do I know you won't tell him I asked?"

            Cheney thought that question was a bit suspicious. Did he really kill his wife? "I don't tell him anything, I hardly know him."

            "Don't tell him." Something about the lord's stare was extremely enticing.

            "I won't tell him, my lord."

            He backed up with his eyes still on Cheney's, and then turned round to peek out the windows. After a moment he hurried outside as his boots stomped through the doorway, tucking the pouch inside his topmost vest.

            Cheney remained in that spot for a while. In the quiet of the afternoon, he realised his heartbeat had quickened, and began to take deeper breaths. Apparently, speaking alone with a customer for the first time had stressed him out. It was nothing to be ashamed of; that was his first time. He would just need more practice.

            The apprentice continued to close up shop.

 

            After Sir Dragneel and Sir Happy returned home, they restocked their cupboard with a handful of vegetables -none of them were cauliflower, and they ate supper together at the workshop's fireplace.

            Cheney might not have known Sir Dragneel too well, but he knew how to crack information from him without the haberdasher knowing. Sir Happy was one to be cautious of though, how he jumped to conclusions and stuck with them, and most times he would be correct.

            "Sir Dragneel."

            "Yes?"

            "Do you know who owns the tailory in the square?"

            "Of course. I know his wife personally."

            Sir Happy stated, "She's scary."

            "We would see each other after lessons way back. We did all kinds of stuff together."

            "She was a handful, right?" Sir Happy crossed his arms.

            The haberdasher spoke plainly, "She was mean."

            Sir Happy asked, "Why do you want to know?"

            Cheney tried to think of something fast. "We're rivals with that shop in a way, aren't we?"

            Sir Happy looked at him, "I guess so. They make clothes and we make sewing utensils."

            The haberdasher cocked his head, "Those don't rival each other very well."

            "Yeah. For one thing, they're doing better than we are. It's more like a goose chase than a rivalry."

            Sir Dragneel inputted, "Them being the goose. You can't catch a goose."

            "Right."

            Cheney waited practically all night for them to spill the answer.

 

            After that jolly good time, the three of them went to bed, but once Sir Dragneel began his loud snoring routine, Cheney slipped out the workshop door. When he'd just begun as an apprentice, he'd originally thought a bed by the door would be convenient in the case of an emergency. As it turned out, it was also convenient if Cheney decided to leave in the middle of the night to pass information.

            The apprentice's flat shoes tapped up the street and along the backs of other shops. His shadow grew longer as he neared a streetlamp at the corner. The stone beneath his feet was harder than he'd remembered. Having been brought up out of town, his feet had always moved across dirt or gravel of some kind. He remembered the first time he'd experienced a stone street, so formal and strong, as if everything that rested upon it was otherworldly and untouchable.

            Running round the street lamp with its fire blazing just inside the glass compartment, Cheney found himself barricaded by buildings. He knew he should've gone round the haberdashery the other way. Before he turned to leave, a slit at the far end of the corridor caught his eye.

            He tapped closer and found he could easily squeeze through the two buildings and end up in the town square, that is, if he was willing to ruin his puffy breeches. They would collect dust and cobwebs of all sorts, not to mention the clean-up would take time if he was going to keep this night a secret.

            Cheney made his way round the other side of the haberdashery and entered the town square that way. It looked so different at night, and from that angle. He ran across the stone to the cathedral.

            Dim fires casted small areas of light on the street from their posts, brightening the cathedral steps in the dark. With the dense clouds in the sky, there wasn't any moonlight.

            He saw a dark figure lurking around the top steps to the cathedral. He hoped it was the lord, but then again he hoped it wasn't; he was suddenly feeling nervous again. Speaking to a customer alone was one thing, but alone at night when he should've been in bed was a horse of a different colour.

            Cheney rose from the square with each step as he neared the figure, keeping an eye on him lest the man run up and strangle him as he did his wife -if that was even the lord's figure. It could've been anybody. It could've been a guard. What would Sir Dragneel do if he found his apprentice dragged home by a guard?

            "Haberdasher's boy?"

            The figure sounded familiar, but he didn't look like the lord at all. All those layers were missing and jewellery... Was the lord undercover as well?

            "Come close."

            He couldn't exactly deny who he was, what with coming out from round the side of the haberdashery. The lord knew it was him, and by then Cheney knew that must've been the lord. They huddled together beside the cathedral's stone reliefs.

            "What can you tell me?"

            Cheney spoke as low as the lord. "Sir Fernandes owns the tailory."

            The lord was wearing a dark cloak to cover his entire body. Only his mouth and nose peeked out from the thing, and they were almost impossible to see in the shadow of the reliefs.

            "Does the haberdasher know him personally?"

            "It didn't seem so." It was nice not to be cut off mid sentence. "Sir Dragneel knows the tailor's wife personally, but he knows very little of the tailor himself."

            The lord raised his head until his eyes met Cheney's, "You need to accompany me."

            How would that work? Maybe the lord meant for him to sneak out again. "Does it stay open later?"

            "I don't know." He said as if he'd been insulted. "Would you ask the haberdasher if you could?"

            He supposed he could tell Sir Dragneel the lord would like a dress to match the hat. Cheney thought that over. No, Sir Dragneel would expect the tailor to do that. "Why do you need me to accompany you?"

            The lord unfastened his gritted teeth, "Make it happen!"

            Cheney didn't feel like being strangled that night. He tried to calm his nerves before answering, "Yes, my lord."

            "Meet me at the tailory tomorrow."

            "Why can't you wait outside the haberdashery?"

            The lord looked at the stone beneath them. After a short while, he looked up at Cheney. "Alright."

            If the lord was in a cloak, that would mean he had to have went home to change. "How did you make it back to the square? You claimed it was too dark."

            "Yeah, before I came up with an idea. I told you I had one."

            "Did you arrive in town with a horse and wagon?"

            "That's none of your business! And I live within the kingdom," he shouted. "I just don't live inside the walls."

            Cheney thought so.

            "I've lived outside the walls my whole life. Out where the real nobles are."

            "I grew up out there as well, though not as far." Cheney said, half trying to get on his good side lest the lord decided to murder him.

            The lord took a few steps back. "Very good then, we'll meet up tomorrow."

            "W-wait, would you mind meeting me at the back door? That way I'll know when you've arrived, and I can ask Sir Dragneel's permission."

            "Permission?"

            "I feel it would be better if I prepare him in advance before you ask for my personal assistance."

            The lord stared at him for a while. "Okay."

            At that time, Cheney was out of the moment enough to catch his rampant heartbeat again. He took steady breaths as he did his best not to look uncomfortable.

            The lord went down the cathedral steps to return home. Cheney couldn't keep his eyes off him. He was afraid the lord was planning a sneak attack of course. That was the way of the higher ups, Cheney knew; distract the victim with a charming tale and then strike when they least expect. At least, that was the folklore of the villagers.

            For years after he'd arrived to practise as Sir Dragneel's apprentice, Cheney had kept all the stories fresh in his mind: Of the townspeople and nobles and beggars, all of the things to be aware of when leaving a village. Though no one had resembled the tall tales closer than the blond lord. All those nights of preparation and study were about to pay off.

 

            The next morning they skipped breakfast for the fourth day in a row. It wouldn't be too long before the haberdashery could afford its first set of wooden mannequins. Each set filled about one shelf if they positioned the heads far enough apart from each other, so Sir Dragneel would be sure to stock the shelves seen from the street first. It was fortunate that they only had one shelf facing the window head on; otherwise it would look out of place with all the other shelves underdressed. Of course, once the lords entered the haberdashery, they would quickly become aware that that shelf was indeed out of place anyway. But at least they'd fallen for the haberdasher's trick.

            Cheney moulded is first hat of the day in the workshop. Sir Happy was at another table threading bobbins. Across the hall, Sir Dragneel watched the shop.

            The lord could be just outside the door already. He hoped Sir Happy wouldn't find a reason to open it. He'd never opened it before, but what if today was different? Cheney went about his business until the assistant left for the shop. At which time, Cheney got up and ran for the door.

            No blond lord.

            Cheney returned to his project before Sir Happy came through the hallway.

            The assistant was carrying a full box of treaded bobbins. They'd been untouched for so long, he started to feel bad for them. So today he was going to unwind them all and thread them again, today of all days. But at least he wasn't going out the back door.

            How long would that take him? All day? Cheney couldn't keep the lord waiting all day. First of all, that was poor service. But having the lord wait outside was Cheney's idea; he couldn't just leave the lord out there.

            "Sir Happy, would you like some help?"

            The assistant looked over with a small noise. "Don't you have a hat to make?"

            "Well, nobody's been buying our hats."

            "We're doing the same thing. I'm winding thread because nobody buys it, and you're making hats because nobody buys them."

            The haberdasher called from the shop, "Sir Happy, you're assistance please!"

            "Aye, sir!"

            Cheney watched the assistant leave the room, and as soon as he was far enough away, Cheney ran for the back door.

            No lord.

            He waited there for the lord to show himself coming round a corner or something, but after a while Cheney chickened out and ran back to his project.

            Sir Happy was still with the haberdasher.

            Cheney gained enough will to make another run for it, and opened the back door, regretting making this decision.

            Still no lord.

            He waited a bit longer, and finally the lord came into view from the main street. Cheney gestured for him to hurry and the lord picked up the pace.

            He was back in his layered outfit, expensive tunics bulging in every which way and tied round his waist with silk. If Cheney didn't see the lord in his cloak last night, he probably would still think the lord just looked that way.

            "Did you ask the haberdasher, or not?"

            Cheney shook his head and checked if Sir Happy was coming back. When he looked out the door again to continue the conversation, the lord was already gone. Cheney knew it was now or never to bring up the plan to Sir Dragneel.

            "Sir," he raced to the shop.

            "Yeah, what is it?" The Haberdasher dusted one of the cheaper hats.

            "Yesterday, a customer came in looking for a burial hat for his wife. He told me he was also in need of a gown, so I directed him to the tailory."

            Sir Dragneel kept listening, a smile frozen on his face.

            "But he insisted that I accompany him. Would you approve of it, sir?"

            "How much material is left back there?"

            "We have enough for two more hats after I've completed the one I'm working on, sir."

            "Very good, Cheney." He placed the hat on the mannequin from which it came, and crossed the floor to a rack of ribbons. "I'll permit you to accompany this lord. It would be healthy for you to leave shop once in a while."

            "Many thanks, sir."

            "Yeah," his assistant stood dusting a hat of his own. "You might grow mushrooms out your ears and nose."

            "Where are you meeting him?" Sir Dragneel shifted his weight and something out the window caught his eye. As he began squinting in disgust, Cheney also glanced over at the window.

            It was the blond lord. He stood taller than he ever had, out in the sunlight, and as proud as could be.

            Cheney almost mistook him for someone else.

            "That's not who you're talking about, right?"

            Sir Happy turned away from the front of the shop completely.

            The apprentice wondered why it was such a bad thing. "It is, sir."

            "Go on," Sir Dragneel gestured for him to leave. As Cheney made his way across the room, Sir Dragneel exploded with a thundering tone, "I expect you back when the shadow touches the first windows."

            That was a side to him Cheney had never seen. It was as if this new lord had ignited something in Sir Dragneel that had never been awaken. It was true, the lord had no idea how to dress, had split personalities ranging from anxious to proud, acted as if he'd killed his own wife, grew up outside the town... He was truly not like any other. What were the inner workings of this lord? Was there a hidden agenda? And did Sir Dragneel and his assistant know about it?

            Cheney joined the lord outside the haberdashery, and the lord wasted no time wrapping an arm round him and escorting him across the square. The apprentice noticed the lord was watching over his shoulder at Sir Dragneel. Was there a past to them he didn't know about? Was that why the lord was acting so anxious around the haberdashery?

 

            The lord pulled Cheney straight into the tailory. It was packed with people, which was to say there were three customers.

            A man of blue locks approached them. He came close enough that Cheney could make out a red design on the side of his face.

            "Welcome," he smiled as if his lips were stuck together. "Is there anything in particular you're looking for, my bright lord?"

            "I need a gown."

            "Right away, sir." The tailor called over his assistant and left to occupy himself with something else.

            That had to be Sir Fernandes. He was everything Sir Dragneel described; arrogant, aloof, and many other derogatory words that started with an A...

            "What may I tailor for you this morning?" The raven-haired assistant asked.

            "I need a gown." The lord said over.

            "Have you brought measurements with you?"

            "It's for my wife," he insisted with a quick tongue.

            The assistant said over, "Do you have her measurements with you?"

            "No," the lord glanced round the place. "B-but we're the same height."

            The assistant tugged at his laced collar, which wrapped round his neck pretty snug. "Is she full or deprived?"

            "Um," he paused. "She's a bit rounder than me." He added, "A lot rounder than me."

            When Cheney looked from the lord to the assistant, the raven-haired man had his collar missing.

            "I will return with the proper supplies. Please wait here." The assistant left them standing in the centre of the shop.

            Cheney turned his attention to the lord, quite suspicious of his sudden behaviour change. "Why did you put your arm around me?"

            "What?" He rubbernecked at Cheney.

            "Walking away from the haberdashery, you put an arm round me."

            "I was afraid you'd get yourself lost in the market crowd."

            There was no market crowd. There wasn't even a market. Cheney decided he'd go ahead and insult a customer. He doubted the lord would return to the haberdashery anyway. "Why are you acting so nervous?"

            "Am I?"

            Cheney let the lord's shuffling boots speak for themselves.

            "I'm supposed to be somewhere," the lord said, looking at the far wall. "I just hope I don't arrive too late."

            The funeral. Cheney hated to ask about a deceased person, so he left it alone. But why the sudden proudness in front of Sir Dragneel?

            The assistant returned, but his shoes were missing. "If you please, I'd like to take your measurements. Would you prefer to have me examine you here or in private?"

            "What?" The lord locked eyes with the assistant.

            "Is this a close body costume, my lord?" The assistant went ahead and poked the lord's layered clothes.

            "Uh, no," the lord shied away from the touch. "Isn't there a pre-made gown I could purchase?"

            When Cheney looked away from the lord, the assistant had his vest missing. Where was he putting all these garments?

            "My lord," groaned the assistant, "This is a tailory. If you'd like a costume already planned out, you could venture to a seller of such things."

            Cheney asked, "Couldn't he use the measurements of a past customer?"

            The assistant stared at Cheney as if the apprentice had suddenly appeared. "If he likes, but I don't think that's what he's looking for."

            "That's fine," the lord fussed.

            The assistant left them again after that. He didn't seem very enthused with his trade, or anything at all.

            Cheney looked to the lord. "Why do you wear layers of clothes?"

            "What?" The lord looked at himself like he'd just woken up and found himself standing in a bunch of other peoples' clothes. "I like to wear clothes."

            "So many at the same time?"

            "Yeah," the lord barked as if it were none of Cheney's business.

            It really wasn't. But how can a person expect to be left alone when they draw so much attention to themself? Now that Cheney had no intention of bribing the lord to return to the haberdashery, he felt free to bend all the rules.

            "Where in the villages do you come from?"

            The lord flicked his eyes at the apprentice. "Where? Over the third hill."

            "What's out there?"

            "Hills."

            "We closer-to-the-town folk like to spread stories about what could be out that far. We've come up with fairies, blankness, fog so bright a person could go blind..."

            "Well," the lord played a hand of his own, "We over-the-hill folk talk about what could be in the valley. That's where you grew up, right? In the valley surrounding the wall?"

            "Yeah," Cheney waited for a comeback.

            "We think there are monsters down in there, ones that blend with the darkness when the sun sets and the hills cast a long shadow over the villagers. They all seep into the depths of their burrows and become the evil that is the dark."

            Cheney raised an eyebrow.

            "There was talk of you all haunting the walls of the town and causing mischief with those who lived too close to the gates. You would pick bricks from the wall and bring them home to worship, and you would terrorise the tower guards."

            Cheney shot back with a smirk, "Over the first hill was another, and over that one was another, and so forth into nothingness. There was no more over the next hill than another hill. We talked about how you villagers became hills over time."

            "I'm a hill, eh?"

            "Only when the sun reaches the highest point in the sky, that's when the sunlight touches all over your village. Your people are quick living phoenixes who turn to hills instead of ash. Right at this moment, you're waiting to die." Cheney suddenly understood everything. "Are you trying to make it back home before you turn into a hill?"

            "No!" Roared the lord. "None of those stories are true!"

            So there must be a funeral. That would best explain the black dress and hat.

            The assistant returned with a thick scrapbook, but his stockings were missing. He instructed that the lord look through and choose a gown that would best fit his wife.

            Cheney took this time to catch his breath. He was really getting himself worked up now, arguing with a customer. He wasn't used to all this attention, but at least he wasn't as obvious as the lord.

            The lord chose a thick black gown for his wife to rest forever in, and the assistant went away to have the pattern looked over.

            The dress looked like the hat, the lord's wife was going to be one fashionable corpse. Thinking over the plan last night, Cheney suddenly realised there was still a serious question to be answered.

            The lord itched his brow and turned to Cheney, "Stop asking questions!"

            Cheney couldn't help but notice the scar across the lord's eyebrow. He just kept running into more and more mysteries with this customer.

            It was too bad the lord wanted him to resist asking questions, because Cheney wasn't going to follow orders anymore. "Why did you want me to accompany you to here?"

            "Don't you like to leave work?" The lord argued, almost in a whine.

            "I won't judge you, I just want to know."

            "Well forget about it."

            "Why were you nervous in the haberdashery but then fine once you left?"

            "That was my first hat shop!" He then widened his eyes in fear.

            "Was that supposed to shock me?"

            "Of course not!" The lord snapped and turned his head away.

            Cheney thought the lord's behaviour was quite abnormal. Not only that, but it fluctuated quite a bit over the course of a few minutes, or even if you said the wrong thing. Could this be because the lord was still so young? But Cheney himself was young, and he'd never acted so undignified. Perhaps being a lord implied dignity, whereas a haberdasher's apprentice needed to earn it.

            The assistant came back with his blouse missing, only wearing his undershirt and trousers. "We can finish this costume in two days time, my lord."

            That was longer than it took Cheney to make a hat. How were these people in higher demand? Right, because they vended to multiple classes.

            "That's fine." The lord sounded discouraged.

            It wouldn't be there in time for the funeral. The lord would need to hold it off.

            The lord gave some coins to the assistant, and the assistant gave the lord a tag to bring back to pick up his order.

            After the assistant left for the last time, Cheney continued his recent thought. "Why were you suddenly smug when we were making our way to the tailory?"

            "Was I?"

            "I guess what I mean is, why are you acting so strange?" Did he rob someone? Did he actually kill his wife? Cheney wanted answers.

            "You wouldn't know strange from ordinary; you work in the haberdashery all day. And before that, you lived secluded in the valley village."

            It was true, but he'd also seen people walking round the square, and people coming into the shop, but not one person acted like the lord. He was definitely hiding something.

            "Why were you hiding in your cloak last night? You were also acting anxious then."

            "I was not!" The lord huffed.

            Cheney waited for him to say something more, but it never happened. Why were they still in the tailory? The assistant told them to return in two days.

            "We can probably leave now."

            The lord turned toe and started for the door. "Fine, fine."

            Was he not ready to leave yet? What else would he need here? Cheney filed through the open door behind the lord and glanced across the square at the cathedral's shadow. It was pressing up on the shop windows, lurking at the bottom of the rest of the buildings as they stood in a line. Cheney and the lord were walking in the shadow of the haberdashery across the way.

            "Were you aware that you were behaving anxiously last night?"

            The lord spun round to glare at Cheney, "Are you trying to make fun of me?"

            "If you have nothing to hide, why are you being defensive?"

            The lord tried to loosen his shoulders under the pressure they endured. "I haven't been myself lately."

            The reason why the lord was acting so strange must've been because of the death, the reason he was anxious was because he needed to attend a funeral, but why did he dress in a dark cloak last night? And what was his relationship with Sir Dragneel? If this was indeed to be their last encounter, Cheney needed answers.

            "Was the reason you wore your hood with your cloak to hide yourself? Who are you hiding from?"

            The lord shuffled in place. "I wasn't hiding. I don't like wearing nice things at night. Especially in densely populated areas."

            "I see." He supposed the town was more crowded than the villages, even if the amount of people walking about was decreasing. Cheney eyed the cathedral's shadow as he rolled the ends of his apron with his fingers. "Why did you have me accompany you when you never asked for my opinion? You treated me more like a tail than an outfit planner."

            "Uh," he paused. "I don't know."

            He really was out of shape. He didn't even know what he was talking about half the time; his most favoured words were _what_ or _um._ He certainly wasn't acting like he was grieving. He must've murdered his own wife, or had her assassinated.

            "Was it to show off to Sir Dragneel?"

            The lord turned red. "N-no! I thought you'd like to leave the shop!"

            "Why were you acting so proud? I saw you looking back at him as we walked away, and you had an arm round me."

            The lord was looking around nervously and hushing him, but Cheney knew better than to raise his voice as to draw attention. The lord was taking extra precautions, it seemed.

            Cheney went on, "It was to take me away from Sir Dragneel, wasn't it?"

            "Hey, nobody likes their master."

            "Don't tell me you were removing me for the sole purpose of mocking someone with an underling."

            "A haberdasher? He's not worth my time."

            "Then why did you look back at him and wrap-" He struck gold. It was because the lord was still recovering from his deceased wife. Cheney was playing as the missing woman.

            The lord shifted his weight from one foot to the other a few rounds, becoming quite distraught. His face was even turning a bright colour again.

            Sir Dragneel knew the lord's wife? He and she would spend time together but she was the lord's fiancée? They were still battling over her, even in her current state? No doubt Sir Dragneel saw the lord wrap an arm round Cheney. He wondered if the haberdasher could connect the dots.

            "Where did you get that scar on your face?"

            The lord stared at him in horror. "Uh, it was an accident."

            His wife tried to fend for herself as he was killing her. Either that or Sir Dragneel fought him at one point for the lady. How exciting. Cheney knew everything about the lord now. He was satisfied.

            "The shadow has passed the windows so I'll be heading back to work now."

            The lord glanced over a shoulder at the far buildings. "No," he insisted as he turned to Cheney again. "I need you to help me pick out face powder and the like."

            As the lord was talking, Sir Dragneel stepped out from the doorway and crossed his arms, glaring at them in the distance.

            "What makes you think I know how to choose the proper face powder?"

            "Where did you get your scar?" He nearly brushed Cheney's nose.

            "Don't touch me," the apprentice made a slight lean away. Then flicked his eyes back up at the lord. "I was raised a tiller. What sort of accidents do lords get themselves burdened with?"

            "My crown slipped from my forehead," he mocked. "As my hatter, you're obligated to finish my outings. Go tell your shopkeeper over there."

            The lord walked out of the way and Cheney was dead centre in Sir Dragneel's line of vision. The haberdasher snarled and lowered his chin, brows furred in a broiling rage.

            Cheney wasn't going to do that. He hurried back to the haberdashery and slipped passed Sir Dragneel to hide away in the depths of the shop. It wasn't until he was seated at his crafting stool when he overheard Sir Dragneel and the lord arguing at the front. Their outbursts carried all the way through the shop and down the hall to the workshop in the back. Cheney guessed the building wasn't very big to begin with, but the two were loud enough to distract him from his work.

            "Hey," echoed the lord. "Apprentice, our business has not been completed!"

            Before he could stand, Sir Dragneel backed him. "I do not sell wardrobes! This is a haberdashery, my apprentice has no further business with you!"

            It was a bit appealing to be fought for; how the lord was in such bad spirits simply because he couldn't keep Cheney.

            Sir Happy hurried into the back room with him.

            "Peasant, stand down! That man is responsible for my coin giving!"

            "I don't pay my apprentice to help nobles spend their money! Especially if that noble is making certain advances on my apprentice!"

            So Sir Dragneel saw him with the lord's arm round him. Cheney waited for the lord's wife to be brought up. He wondered if Sir Dragneel knew she's passed away. He wondered if Sir Dragneel knew it was the lord who killed her.

            "What I do is none of your concern, lowlife! You'd be lucky to keep your shop for another week. Apprentice, come here!"

            Cheney readied to stand again when Sir Dragneel fought on. "We'll be fine, we're not afraid to lose the shop! Now get going before I teach you a lesson!"

            "So you agree your trade is useless."

            "You bought your hat, now leave this place!"

            "Don't you fear for your apprentice's future?"

            The door creaked shut as Sir Dragneel shouted, "Get out of my way! The haberdashery is closed!"

            "I would consider the abuse your apprentice suffers from you. He'd be better off with me as a slave."

            The door slammed tight, and the lock came down with an additional boom.

            Cheney sat in the workshop. His breath quickened at the excitement. Even listening to an argument with a noble was uncomfortable, but it was more so because Sir Dragneel was being attacked. The lord was branded in his mind, the one who would pay for his actions. Cheney saw him so well because his subconscious already wanted to be able to spot him in a crowd. Cheney would puncture him the same way he punctured Sir Dragneel's pride.

            Though, he could only remember the way the lord's hair looked in the reflected light, the way his eyes looked up at him from under his cloak, how he gave in to temptation as Cheney insulted his village.

            Those were the moments that stood out the most he supposed.

 

            Days passed, and the lord hadn't shown himself. Cheney would watch out the windows as long as he could each time he entered the shop. Helping a customer choose the right button set, fetching the spare rolls of ribbon from the back shelf, he took this time to sneak peeks out the windows across the room.

            When he was in position to see the tailory, he watched for the lord to pick up his order, but he never arrived. Maybe he needed Cheney to accompany him for that as well, but Sir Dragneel dismissed him, and now he had no way of accessing Cheney. Well, there was always the workshop door, but the lord might've been worried that in showing up it would put Cheney's apprenticeship on the line. But he said he didn't care for the loyalty of underlings. Why hadn't he shown up yet?

            That must've not been the reason the lord was avoiding the tailory. By chance, Cheney had just missed him while working away from the shop front. There was nothing left tying them together. Cheney would never see the lord again. Somehow that bothered him.

            He was leaving a job unaccomplished, the lord would go unpunished for his wrong doings. Cheney respected Sir Dragneel. The three of them were suffering enough. Nobles were no exception; the blond lord was going to pay. He needed to be put to justice anyway, killing his wife like that, and after taking her from Sir Dragneel.

 

            Cheney laid in bed, dozing off in direction of the dead fire. Originally, he'd planned on tracking the lord down and giving him what for at his estate, but Cheney came to realise he had no idea where that might be. The lord had told him he came from over the hills. Cheney could travel the road and ask around. However, the journey would take all night, perhaps longer, and he wouldn't return to the haberdashery in time.

            If there were some way to leave the haberdashery...

            He could always run away. Sir Dragneel would understand if he knew the reason behind Cheney's disappearance. It wouldn't be permanent either, Cheney had no intention of staying away longer than necessary. It would only be long enough to find the lord's estate and pound some sense into him.

            A quick rush fell through Cheney's upper body. He saw flashes of the lord glaring at him, gritting his teeth, and moving his body in frustrated manners. The lord's eyes quivered as Cheney visioned himself striking the noble. He struck the lord so hard. He watched as the noble snapped at him and shouted his heart out.

            It became too hot.

            Cheney unravelled himself from under his blanket and sat up. He took deep breaths of fading smoke and various crafting fabrics, attempting to calm himself. He must've been well worked up if he was having trouble emptying his mind of the lord. That was it, Cheney needed to leave. He didn't care if Sir Dragneel would miss him in the morning, he would explain everything as soon as he'd returned.

            He threw his legs over the side of his hay filled mattress, when he remembered the conversation Sir Dragneel had with them earlier that night:

           

            "We'll be fine," he said. "If anything happens to the shop, we still have each other. We're a family."

           

            Cheney swallowed, eyeing the workshop floor.

            It would be maybe three days at most. Sir Dragneel had plenty of hats to sell, he wouldn't need Cheney for a while. The only thing he was useful for was fetching products for customers, but Sir Happy could do that. Perhaps Cheney could threaten the lord into giving the haberdashery some money. Then they could eat again, and Sir Dragneel would have enough to pay to keep the shop even without demand.

            It was all looking up. All Cheney needed to do was make it happen.

            He got up and threw his old cloak on, the one he'd arrived in years back upon finding work one blustery evening. Cheney remembered the ends flying off the ground; each gust of wind dragged him backward, calling him home again. But he wasn't going home, not for many years if ever. He was going to be an apprentice.

            Now he was wearing the cloak to run away. Though it wasn't to abandon his dream, it was to save it. Cheney was a knight, and he was going to protect what he'd worked for and respected.

           

            Cheney carried the lantern over to a street post and tried to gather a bit of the flame. Hopefully he could keep it lit with what little oil was left in the lantern. The fire would be safe in a glass compartment, so the wind wouldn't blow it out at least.

            His cloak wasn't respectable enough to have a hood like the lord's, but his hair was dark enough that he would easily blend with the shadows. It wasn't as heavy as the lord's either. The noble's cloak dragged along and hung with such force, Cheney suspected it to be carrying marble. Meanwhile, Cheney's flapped with each step and the sun would shine through it back when he wore it over his head to work on the farm.

            He finally lit the lantern, and hurried off toward the wall's gates. He hoped they were still open. How else had the lord entered at such a late hour? Had he paid his way through? Cheney hoped not. It would be a waste to spend money on a gate when he, Sir Happy, and Sir Dragneel were starving.

            Everything was just like the night before, empty streets of hard stone, corner lamps lighting the ends of avenues, and the soft chill of a summer night.

            A large shadow stretched out on the ground from round a corner shop. Cheney took slower steps at first but then continued just the same. It was definitely the lord finally come to see him again. That is, to make Sir Dragneel upset. The shadow was bulky and round like the lord's attire, and he could hear the heavy boots stomping closer.

            The shadow quickly contorted to a different shape, looking something like two men. As the figure came into view, Cheney saw it was a couple of night guards. They're capes brushed the backs of their ankles as they marched along, weapons in hand and armour shining in the light of a street lamp.

            Cheney felt his gut drop, and was hit with flashing images of the lord again. He must've been angrier than he could grasp. His subconscious knew him too well; he was unable to keep up with his emotions.

            He made his way to the wall gate, and was relieved to find it had been left open. By chance it was open all the time and it only closed during wars or other dangerous circumstances. Cheney had never heard of a war in this kingdom, so he guessed the gate never actually closed. Just once, he thought he'd like to see what the doors looked like when they weren't facing the outer wall. Did they have metal shields on them with the kingdom's coat of arms? Was there a large animal build into it to frighten off enemies? Cheney walked under the metal arch connecting one tower to the other, imagining walking straight through the gate like a phantom.

           

            The air outside the wall was fresher, so much so. The haberdashery products and mounting furniture were closely knit. Cheney would reside in the workshop just to get away from it all. But in the back room it was always full of smoke, even with the chimney. Some days, it would get so bad Sir Dragneel would close the door connecting the shop to the hallway. It never seemed to bother the haberdasher but customers would complain. Cheney missed fresh air more than his old residence, though that was mostly because he'd made up his mind that he would not look back once he'd arrived in town.

            He took one deep breath after the other, sighing after each one as if his soul was being cleansed. He didn't bring anything other than the lantern; he would have to beat the lord with his bare hands. Or he could always throw the lantern round. No, he would much prefer to serve justice personally.

            Cheney felt his chest stir as before. He kept his eye on the dirt road, the moon tinting everything silver around the lantern's blaze. He'd missed the moon, and he would've liked to enjoy it fuller, but he was too caught up with the lord. As he envisioned the lord getting hurt, he came to notice he never actually imagined the noble crying or bleeding or bruising or anything like that, rather the lord would just be angry and even try to come back at Cheney. It was more like playing than fighting. Cheney wondered if this was because of his upbringing, avoiding argument when possible. It was certainly true about his emotional response to such things: Whenever he and the lord spoke, Cheney's breath would pick up quite a bit. During their battle in the tailory Cheney had felt a great rush, as if he'd found what he truly wanted out of life: Not apprenticeship, but a healthy argument.

            He was deprived. He knew others argued on a regular basis, it was human nature to fight and get upset. Cheney was raised never to do these things. So he must've been deprived beyond help. It was the only explanation as to why he felt so strongly about the lord.

            Coming up on the left, a small grove blocked his view of an upcoming village. It was his village, his home. He wouldn't return tonight, he was on a mission. As he came closer to getting passed the grove, his village church steeple poked out from the other side of the branches. The bell hung still, unused for many years. At least, that was how Cheney had left it.

           

            Back in the day, a Friar dwelled there and rang the bell every week to call his people to worship. Cheney thought he'd work as a Friar's boy. It was the most respectable occupation of the village, and it would keep Cheney's reputation on the high end. He came to know the Friar personally after being accepted into the church, and he worked very hard to keep in good terms with the man.

            Brother Redfox was the Friar's name. He never cut his hair, instead he let it drape down his back over his Friar garments. For a while, Cheney let his hair grow out as well, following on the path the Friar built to the Heavens. Once Cheney's hair had begun to show difference, Brother Redfox had him cut it. Apparently he was afraid Cheney would never find his own way.

            Most days the Friar boy would occupy the church alone, waiting for Brother Redfox to return from another travel. He would stand before all the seats, high on the platform, like the Friar did each week during worship. Cheney would talk to himself as if to practise preaching. His voice would echo for a bit but then dissolve in the stone walls. He was quite serious about being a Friar himself one day.

            When he wasn't confined to the cold depths of the church, Cheney worked on his farm. He grew vegetables for himself and the neighbours. He was well off that way, able to afford his own house and assets. The village would hold small markets so they could live off each other and remain an open community. Cheney bought hobby items time and again out of curiosity, and to fill a void within him that was slowly growing bigger.

            As time went on, Cheney grew away from the church and picked up a fondness for crafting hats. Brother Redfox encouraged him to follow whichever trail he found enjoyable, even if it took him away from the church. There came a day when the Friar announced he would leave for the town inside the wall. He was moving up in the ranks. He blessed everyone with prosperity and left the valley for good. The church was empty after he left. Cheney's village was getting older, people were passing away, and some were leaving for the town in search for better things. The message drifted over to Cheney as he realised he should leave too. He wasn't going to survive as a farmer in a dying village. He sold his farm to a neighbour and moved inside the wall to be a haberdasher's apprentice.

           

            Cheney supposed returning to his village wasn't a terrible idea after all. He would just check up on it, see if things had changed at all. Maybe pay his old farm a visit. He would be straight on the road again; he just needed to be reminded of why he'd left in the first place. It would strengthen his will, seeing the rubbles from which he'd came, it would leave him renewed and inspired to work harder. Each step made it all the more difficult to talk himself out of it, even though he couldn't stop thinking about Sir Dragneel and how he would wake to find Cheney missing from the workshop.

            He couldn't do that to Sir Dragneel. This was a mistake. Cheney needed to turn round and go back into town.

            Somehow he couldn't make himself listen. He just kept on walking towards the valley village. It hurt too much, seeing his old home without thoroughly reacquainting himself with it. He would only be there long enough to see his farm and the church, nothing else. Then it was back on the trail to pummel the blond lord.

            Cheney stomped over to the church doors, only looking up at its grand structure once he'd reached the few steps leading him to the doors. It was scrawny in comparison to the cathedral in the square, but it filled him with memories of Brother Redfox and villagers coming together. It looked abandoned now.

            Metal slapping called from round the building. It sounded like a shovel of sorts. Cheney knew the graveyard was back there. Was someone robbing one of his neighbours? What was there to steal? The village couldn't afford sweets, so Cheney supposed their teeth were worth a bit of money.

            Cheney crept over to the edge of the stone church, half wondering how the thief hadn't heard him yet with how he'd been stomping about, and the lantern was creaking back and forth from the ring in his hand. He thought he'd rid of the extra weight and lunge at the thief the moment he got close enough. So he set the lantern down.

            Upon inspecting whether the thief had come with a weapon, Cheney spotted the man's spiked hair. It looked just like the lord's, but it couldn't have been him, unless he was burying his wife. But of course, the funeral was days ago, and the lord didn't live in the valley.

            A dark cloud swiped off the figure until his hair gleamed in the moonlight. He was blond, and beautiful blond, just like the lord. That is, the bleached colour was remarkable; Cheney never saw very many blonds in town.

            The thief was standing in the grave; everything below his shoulders was underground. Beside the hole he'd dug, a cheap cart waited with a body lying upon it. Cheney was given a start. Was the thief stealing whole bodies? Enough was enough. Nobody was taking Cheney's neighbours from their graves. They were put there to rest, and there they would stay.

            Cheney ran to the hollow grave, brushing overgrown grasses with his thin shoes. He neared with such force, the thief looked up at him just as startled.

            "Apprentice?" The man asked through a cloth, wearing a buttoned blouse and rolled up trousers.

            It couldn't be the lord. What business did the lord have stealing bodies? Unless that was how the lord made his money, through an underground market selling prized body parts for fortunes.

            "Who do you think you are?" Cheney shouted. Immediately, the stench of rotting flesh attacked him from the side.

            "I'm just doing my job! I didn't mean to interrupt your late-night stroll!"

            "Are you robbing my villagers' graves?"

            "Of course not!" The lord sounded more relaxed than when he usually defending himself. "I'm putting them in the ground!"

            "What have you stolen already?"

            "I told you, I'm not robbing anyone!" He took one hand off his shovel to throw it in the air, "I'm a professional gravedigger! This is my trade!"

            Cheney stood silent, mouth half open in shock, until the corpse convinced him to close it.

            "You think I'm joking." He pulled his mask down to smirk and rested his weight on the handle of his shovel. "Have you ever wondered where everyone was disappearing to in town? Why you were becoming less and less popular?"

            Cheney felt sick as he came up with a simple answer.

            "Because everyone is dying." The lord confirmed. "That's how I knew your haberdasher wouldn't make it a few more weeks. There's been an infestation, you know."

            Cheney tried to speak, "An illness?"

            "Everyone's becoming ill. Everyone in densely populated areas, that is. You should've stayed home in this abandoned village."

            Was it abandoned? Cheney glanced back at the houses, looking for some sign of life: A patch of vegetables, a swept front door...

            "That haberdasher doesn't care enough about you to let you go."

            "I'm not quitting my apprenticeship. I would never abandon Sir Dragneel."

            "Wait," the lord furred his brow. "What are you doing outside the shop?"

            "That is a very good question. Because I've come to destroy you." Cheney felt dizzy leaving his childhood teachings behind.

            "What?"

            "You made advances on me in front of Sir Dragneel, then you insulted him and his trade. You will pay for what you have done."

            "He isn't worth all this. He's keeping you from being successful! There are plenty of other haberdashers who have steady businesses! If he cared about you at all, he'd give you to someone else!"

            "Don't talk about him as if he's committing a crime! I am fully capable of leaving Sir Dragneel's haberdashery on my own. If I was worried about my well being, I would've left!"

            "Idiot, you don't know what's good for you! You just pity the haberdasher!"

            "I do not!" Cheney jumped into the grave with the lord, "You may hate the idea of having someone over you, being a noble, but I for one do not see the harm in having a teacher!"

            "He's not teaching you!" The lord leaned away from his shovel to scream in Cheney's face. "He's holding you back, you idiot!"

            Cheney almost pushed the lord back but something stopped him. "Unlike you, I had to work for my rank! I've starved some nights to keep my trade going! I've built friendships too! Whereas you grew up surrounded by peers and were introduced to all your acquaintances personally! You've been fortunate enough to eat various meals in one day every day!"

            The lord gritted his teeth the way Cheney liked. That is, the way that made Cheney excited to crush him. "You don't know me! How do you know I didn't work my ass off?"

            Cheney went ahead and pushed him then. The feeling of his hands on the lord's thin clothes thrilled him, his hands digging into the lord's upper body for a slight moment, but Cheney could easily play it back and describe every movement and sensation.

            The lord stepped behind the shovel to regain balance, then used it as leverage to climb his way across the grave and shove Cheney into the wall of dirt behind him.

            Cheney pushed off and punched the lord in the mouth. A hard structure of teeth greeted him from under the lord's soft skin. He felt like touching him some more. As the lord came back at him to throw a fist of his own, Cheney went ahead and indulged himself.

            They fought in the dirt, low clouds drifted across the sky to block the moon out for a moment. Their energy and breathing crowded the hollow grave with a humid air. They stomped about, massaging the loose soil to a packed surface. Cheney had never felt more stimulated, the sensation of being able to move freely without causing a rift in your teacher's guidance, the act of giving an enemy what they deserved after damaging what wasn't there’s. He moved in ways he thought he never could, he was swift, strong, and couldn't feel any of his opponent's attacks. In fact, he was completely numb. All he wanted was to see the lord hurt, tired, surrendering, maybe even bloody, maybe even passed out. Cheney thought they may both end up passed out, and he would sleep with the lord in the grave he dug.

            The lord panted and grunted, sounds Cheney had never experienced. He was forcing the lord to react, to dodge and hit, to spread his legs and hold his arms up. Things were suddenly happening in a much slower rate, as if Cheney had been knocked into a dream realm.

            Cheney took the lord by his buttoned blouse, and dragged him closer, shoving his lips under the cloth mask, smashing their mouths together as he pressed his tongue forward as far as it would go, trying to fit it into the lord however it would work.

            The lord grunted in fear and exhaled into Cheney, shoving him away. "What..." His thought died in an instant, and he pushed himself back into Cheney.

            They breathed onto each other as they sucked mouths. Then the lord shoved them apart as before, wide eyed and an open frown.

            "What?" He said again and scrambled out of the grave as fast he could, leaving the shovel behind.

            Cheney was sweating, he was gasping for air too. It was just too hot, that was all. He kissed the lord out of pity; he felt sorry and needed to express himself in a way equivalent to that of physically hurting him. If a person was to punch a man in rage, then a person was to kiss a man in apology. It was only the right thing to do.

            The lord sat by his corpse wagon, and Cheney peeked up at him. He wondered if breathing too close to the diseased body was a bad idea.

            "Who do you think you are to insult me? You're not even a haberdasher! You have no trade! I own land, you filthy moron!"

            Cheney moved a bit of hair out of his face. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have beaten you. I was caught up in getting revenge for Sir Dragneel, but I came to understand violence is never the answer. I wasn't brought up that way and I'll never be capable of destroying anyone. Not even for my friends."

            The lord squirmed and threw his arms out, "He's not your friend! He's using you! He's using you!"

            Cheney tried to pull himself out of the hole. "He is my friend, I don't expect a noble to understand the importance of a strong relationship. One a person makes on their own and out of the kindness of their soul."

            The lord just watched him. "Would you shut up about that? I'm not even a born noble!"

            Cheney gawked at the lord, and in doing so lost his grip, and tumbled down into the grave again, clumps of dirt piling on top of him.

            "That's right! I've been a gravedigger all my life! I've worked under my own masters, and I've made my own money! How do you think I became so wealthy? I've been in top demand ever since the illness broke out, I've been making good money."

            Cheney gave climbing out another try.

            "I bought my own land, I bought some decent clothes... I'm not a noble!"

            Cheney clung to some sturdy looking weeds. "Are you even a lord?"

            "Heck if I know! That's what people call me, so I guess that's what I'll be! It's nice to finally get some respect. That is, until some haberdasher's apprentice falls for the trap and whole heartedly believes I'm a prissy noble!"

            Trusting his weight with the patch of weeds, Cheney hummed from his gut and heaved himself out. He rolled onto the flat land and sat up. "If you hate the higher-ups why did you insult Sir Dragneel as if you were one? Was it to prove you were better off than him?"

            "I am, aren't I? I don't have to be a noble to do it either; that haberdasher will soon be out of business. And so will you! So, get out of there!"

            "No, I'm not afraid to lose the haberdashery!"

            "But I'm afraid to lose you-" The gravedigger cut himself short and averted his eyes. He smoothed his hair as if to buy himself time, then started again, "If you lose the haberdashery, you'll be forced to live on the streets where illnesses spread. That kind of irresponsibility from an authority figure makes it hard for me to get my work done."

            "Get over yourself." Cheney tried to figure out where this was coming from. Did someone murder his wife after all? Was that person an authority figure? "You don't need to act like everyone's knight in shining armour." Was he connecting Cheney to his wife again? "I don't need your help, I want to be Sir Dragneel's apprentice, even if we're on the streets. He's still my teacher."

            "You're an idiot! Don't you care about the finer things in life? Your own house, your own possessions?"

            "I'm not materialistic, I can get by. You really shouldn't put your own worries on others, even if the people involved are responsible for something that had happened long ago. Especially if it had happened long ago!"

            "Don't tell me how to live! Were those the words of your village Friar? I bet you worshipped that bastard like the sun."

            "There you go insulting me as if you stand higher than a man of the church."

            The gravedigger spit in Cheney's direction. "Fuck religion!"

            Cheney couldn't believe what he was hearing. He crinkled his nose at the gravedigger in disgust. "You are damaged, aren't you? Where did you really get your scar?"

            "I told you it was an accident! Where did you get yours?"

            "It was while I was farming, my valley community and I were tilling someone's land and I got scratched across the nose."

            "How does a till get in the air that high?"

            Cheney thought about standing up, but the gravedigger was still seated so he thought he'd accompany the man a bit longer. "There was a dispute, and I got in the middle of it. Now where did you get yours?"

            The gravedigger rested his elbows on his knees and held his hands together. After glancing round the floor he spoke up, "Someone gave it to me too."

            "Had someone struck you with their grave digging shovel?"

            "No," the man flicked his narrow eyes up at him. They shined in the night's radiance like a creature of prey. "They were taking something away from me so I tried to get it back but they hit me."

            "I see." The story was a bit vague. Could it have something to do with his wife? Had Sir Dragneel been the one to strike him? "Who was it that hit you?"

            "A man. A big man."

            Cheney thought Sir Dragneel was about the same size as the gravedigger if not smaller. He wondered if there was a third man in the mix out for his wife. "And what was the big man after?"

            The gravedigger hid his head in his hands, shaking a bit.

            Cheney knew it was his wife, he shouldn't have asked anything more.

            "It was," he paused to hold the side of his head, as he looked far off in the distance. "My lover..."

            Cheney knew it. He knew it all along.

            "Lector..."

            That was an untraditional name for a woman. Could it be the gravedigger's lover was male? Cheney stared at the man; frozen in fear, disgust, shock, relief... That is, not so much relief as acceptance...

            "I loved him." The gravedigger broke down in the pit his knees made, groaning and wailing with occasional wheezes.

            Cheney thought harder about getting up off the ground, but he hated to leave the gravedigger in such a state. He waited for the crying to die down a bit before he started up a conversation. "I'm sorry. How long ago was this?"

            The gravedigger sniffed, "A long time, when I was just starting as a professional."

            "Did you meet your wife after that?"

            The gravedigger held his face. "I never married!"

            "I'm not married either," said Cheney, "Nor have I ever been." He then realised his entire theory was busted. "Wait a minute, then who was the dress for?"

            "Nobody," cried the gravedigger, "It was for nobody!"

            "Were you faking your wife's death to lessen suspicion about not having one? Was this because you knew you would never love a woman?"

            The gravedigger looked up at him as if everything coming from his lips was all the blond ever wanted to hear. Cheney liked the feeling.

            "The dress was for me."

            Cheney was being thrown for loop after loop with this guy.

            "I wanted to pass as a woman so I could get closer to men." The gravedigger inched closer to Cheney, which Cheney liked. "I would never marry them, or become intimate, I just wanted to be close to another man."

            Cheney nodded, under his spell.

            "I was nervous going into town because I thought I was transparent, like everyone could tell what I was there for. When I was a young, I drew a lot of attention to myself in my village. I think they left because of me."

            Cheney stopped himself from nodding and lifted the enchantment -or whatever that was. "What did you do when you were younger?"

            "I stayed close to Lector, I hardly left him. It was a bit suspicious. People were beginning to talk. They left because of me, they were sick."

            "I think they might've been moving to the inside of the wall. That's why the valley villagers left. Unless your village really is that much different."

            The gravedigger didn't remove his eyes from Cheney's. "Who are you?"

            "I'm just a haberdasher's apprentice."

            "How do you know what I'm thinking? How can you understand me? What are you, a daemon?"

            Cheney blinked. "You're mocking me, aren't you?"

            "Yeah," the gravedigger smiled. "But seriously. Who are you?"

            "I grew up on a farm. I spent my youth growing vegetables and attending worship at this church. I was the Friar's boy for a time, that was my-"

            "You what?" The lord scrambled to his feet and backed into the cart. "Bastard! I knew it was too good-" He lifted the corpse and stormed over to the grave. "Leave me alone, now!"

            Cheney furred his brow and stood up. He wiped his clothes but the mud wasn't coming off. "I'm sorry you don't agree with the church, but that doesn't mean I can't."

            "Fuck you! You can die in a fire!"

            "I don't care if you've had romantic feelings for a man, if that's what you're on about."

            The gravedigger threw the corpse in the dirt and then threw his gaze on Cheney. "You what?"

            "I don't care if you love men. It doesn't scare me."

            The gravedigger looked down at the corpse for a second opinion.

            "I don't feel attracted to women either."

            He looked over at Cheney, another cloud passed over them, glazing them with a blue shade. The gravedigger waited for a moment before speaking up. "I'm Sting. Sting Eucliffe."

            "Rogue," offered the apprentice, "Cheney."

            They bowed in favour of one another.

            "So you were a Friar's boy before you knew you were a walking sin?"

            "I don't believe in sin, only values. Brother Redfox, the Friar, he taught me to trust all people."

            "Redfox?" Sir Eucliffe screeched.

            "You've heard of him? Or do you know him? He travelled to different villages to preach-"

            "Yeah I know him!" He shouted as if he'd been insulted. "He came to my village all right! He came and terrorised us!"

            "What?" Cheney furred his brow at Sir Eucliffe's insolence.

            "He's the fucking person who took Lector from me!" Tears rolled down his face as he screamed, taking steps closer.

            Cheney quickly found he didn't like being thrown for loops. "Do you mean Lector became a man of the church? Is that why you hate religion?"

            Sir Eucliffe took a long sniff and looked at the sky for a moment. "No! He stole Lector from my village! It was all my fault, I drew too much attention to us! It was, it was my fault, you know!"

            "Just how open were you?"

            "More than I should've been! If I could return to the past, I'd keep him hidden away. I'd leave the village for another land, where no one could find us."

            Cheney thought about patting Sir Eucliffe, or holding his shoulder, or holding more than his shoulder. He thought of carrying Sir Eucliffe in his arms.

            "Tell me right now, how much do you love that Friar?"

            "Love him? He was a teacher!"

            "Don't play coy! How much do you love him?"

            Cheney shouted, "I don't!"

            The moon peered out from over the cloud, coating them with a silver glow.

            "Then I'm going to kill him."

            Cheney closed his eyes at the man's idiocy. "Violence is never the answer."

            "Don't preach the Friar's garbage on me! Fuck him!"

            "Why can't you accept your lover's decision-"

            "Fuck you!" Sir Eucliffe screamed himself out of breath. Gasping for air, he screamed again, "Get away from me, idiot! Leave me alone!"

            Cheney stepped back where he could regain composure. He'd begun trembling out of control at Sir Eucliffe's anger. It was quite unfamiliar to have someone so upset at him.

            The apprentice took a breath and tried to be strong. "You can't control everything-"

            "Eat shit! Go back to your stupid shop already!"

            "Lector's life is not yours to-"

            "You're master is probably worried sick about you!"

            "You can't force people to like you-"

            "Shut up, apprentice!" Sir Eucliffe stormed over and punched him.

            Cheney fell to the ground. He gagged under his insecurity, feeling drowsy again, and hoping he was doing the right thing by spreading his teachings.

            Sir Eucliffe wiped his eye and trudged to the grave. He got down and pulled out the shovel, then began filling in the hole with the pile of dirt he'd made earlier.

            Cheney was suddenly aware of the other graves Sir Eucliffe had filled, the top soil loose and indented in square uniforms. He'd been working hard all night, maybe even from earlier that day. Cheney thought back to what he'd spent his day doing, now aware that Sir Eucliffe was out digging in the dirt that same time.

            The apprentice swallowed another round of dignity. "It's not shameful to let your life unfold in front of you without having had the reigns in your possession."

            Sir Eucliffe ignored him.

            "What I mean is, you may not have had full control of your life, but being able to ride with the current is better than going nowhere while swimming against it."

            "I said go home!"

            "Not very many people have the patience to accept what they’re given. Most people think themselves too highly to let things happen that were never scheduled. I think it's honourable. If we all got over ourselves and let things happen the way they do, there would be less cruelty."

            Sir Eucliffe hunched over his dirt pile, hiding behind his shoulder. "Stop talking!"

            Cheney stopped for a while. But then carried on, "I applaud you for letting your lover go-"

            "Shut up!" Sir Eucliffe yanked the shovel out of the dirt and whipped himself round to glare at Cheney. "I didn't let Lector go! He was stolen from my village! He was fucking stolen!"

            "But you can accept that without needing revenge!"

            "That Friar will die by my hand! I will make it slow and painful, just how he likes it when it's someone else!"

            Cheney felt a twist in his gut. "Brother Redfox never intended to cause pain-"

            "He killed Lector for loving me!"

            Cheney's chest tightened and something fell through his stomach.

            "He came into my village, said a bunch of shit about the devil, and then singled us out in front of everyone!" He threw the shovel down and then collapsed over it, on his hands and knees.

            Cheney suddenly felt very attached somehow, like they'd known each other their entire lives and it would be perfectly acceptable to crawl over and hold him.

            "Lector was screaming!" He cried out, "He didn't do anything, the damn Friar didn't do anything, he kept walking! He hit me! I was trying to save Lector from being killed!"

            Cheney watched Sir Eucliffe hide his face in the grass. He inched closer, rubbing his backend against the graveyard wild flowers.

            "Lector was publically hanged as an example to all tempters. That's what they told me." Sir Eucliffe's voice died down to a murmur, "I didn't get to burry him..."

            Cheney came right up next to the man and paused, thinking through every possibility. He could pat the man's back, that wouldn't be too bad. What if he hugged him? He would need to let Sir Eucliffe know he was there first, or he may get scared. Cheney put his hand on Sir Eucliffe's back. The man's muscles bulged into his touch.

            "He rotted somewhere..." The man whimpered, "He never got put to rest."

            "Well," Cheney couldn't think of anything to say. "I'm sorry."

            Sir Eucliffe lifted himself from the mud and slung his arms round Cheney.    

            They would be covered in soil before the night was over. That is, because they were spending so much time on the ground. That is, because this was a sad moment and they needed to feel sturdy on the earth.

            "I'm sorry," Cheney said over.

            They held each other as the clouds moved over them, each shadow marked the beginning of a new round, it seemed. As though they were being timed, tested on how long they could keep like that. Cheney thought he could go on all night. That is, he wanted to help Sir Eucliffe recover to the best of his ability.

            "I tried to stop him..."

            Cheney nodded.

            "Lector was screaming..."

            A tear blurred Cheney's vision. He reached up and cleared his face before they could drip onto Sir Eucliffe. Meanwhile, his cloak was behaving like a rag for Sir Eucliffe. But Cheney didn't mind. This was one of those moments where one person could get away with something the other couldn't.

            "Stay with me."

            Cheney eyed the church in the distance.

            "Be my apprentice."

            That wasn't going to happen, but he didn't want to hurt the man anymore than he already had, so Cheney said nothing.

            "You could be mine."

            Something in Cheney's lower stomach woke up. The thought that he could belong to Sir Eucliffe was extremely satisfying somehow.

            Sir Eucliffe hesitated to say something more, but then blurted, "I won't let him take you away!"

            Cheney wasn't the wife... He was Lector. Sir Eucliffe behaved the way he did around Cheney because, to him, Cheney was a stand in for an old friend. Did that mean Sir Dragneel was Brother Redfox? This wouldn't do, Sir Eucliffe needed to wake up before things repeated for him. How many other Lectors had he found?

            "I am not Lector."

            Sir Eucliffe was still for a moment. He brought his head back to stare at Cheney. "I know that."

            "I don't need you to take me away from Brother Redfox."

            The man creased an eyebrow and showed his teeth in defence.

            "Sir Dragneel is a poor haberdasher, he's trying to keep his shop. I'm sorry someone hurt you, but that someone wasn't Sir Dragneel."

            "Huh?" He shouted to sound threatening, meanwhile tearing up.

            "Brother Redfox hurt you, that has nothing to do with Sir Dragneel and me!"

            "I never said that! All I wanted was to take you on as my apprentice!"

            "I'm sorry!" Cheney took the man's shoulders and shook him. "But I cannot be your apprentice, Sir Eucliffe!"

            He glared at Cheney, a tear dripping down his cheek. After a while of silence, he grumbled, "Cheney..."

            His gut trembled at the sound of Sir Eucliffe saying his name. "Yes?"

            "If this is our last night..." The man blushed and averted his eyes.

            Cheney's eyes widened in longing.

            "Nothing," he buried his face in Cheney's shoulder again.

            The apprentice panted to muster up some courage. "Why did you kiss me?"

            Sir Eucliffe gripped him tighter in fear, but then relaxed a bit before correcting him. "You kissed me."

            "Yes, but you kissed back."

            "Did I?"

            Cheney pulled away to look at him. "Yes, you kissed me when I took your blouse, and then initiated a kiss after leaving."

            "But you initiated the first one."

            Cheney reached out and held a strand of Sir Eucliffe's hair. It shimmered against his pale fingers in the moonlight.

            "W-what are you doing?"

            Cheney put his hand back on the man's shoulder. "I don't... know really."

            "You like my hair?"

            "It's a lovely colour is all, I don't see it very often in town, I've never seen blond hair actually, I've seen dark colours and Sir Dragneel's is pink, but that's still not as bright as blond-"

            "Hey," Sir Eucliffe pressed a gloved hand onto Cheney's lips. "I like your hair too."

            Cheney felt a spread of mud on his mouth then. "You do?"

            "It's really dark, like your valley village; the shadow of the hills."

            "That's a bit humorous, isn't it? How our hair colours match the stories of our villages. You, the high sun phoenix; and I, the shadow."

            Sir Eucliffe gave a slow giggle as if to buy himself time.

            "Did everyone in your village have pale hair?"

            "No, Lector's was red, a burnt red. My tribe leader's was white."

            "Ah," Cheney smiled. "My leader's hair colour was black. So was Brother Redfox's. But everyone else's ranged."

            "That doesn't challenge the stories very well; having tribe leaders that mirror them." Sir Eucliffe's teeth shined in the moving light, quickly doused by another cloud.

            They were just beneath the breeze, sheltered by the surrounding hills. He supposed Sir Eucliffe had grown accustomed to it in all his days of grave digging. The man must've buried people all around the outside of the wall, in valleys, on hills, in forests... The hilltops must've been especially windy.

            Cheney cleared his throat. "Why are you on bad terms with Sir Dragneel, then?"

            He squinted, "I told you. It's because I don't like the idea of underlings."

            "I'll believe you then." Cheney let the man loose and got up from the mud. He tried to clean himself off, but it only made matters worse: The mud was still too wet. How would he explain this to Sir Dragneel? Maybe he could dry his clothes by the fire. He could tell Sir Dragneel it was too cold to sleep, and just lay there all night. He could even lie about peeing all over himself, anything to dry his clothes without suspicion.

            "I-I'll accompany you home!" Sir Eucliffe scrambled to his feet and went to fetch the shovel. "It's the least I can do for your help in town."

            Cheney watched the man fill the rest of the grave. "Thank you, sir. I'm going to visit the rest of my old home."

            As he went back into the village, Sir Eucliffe asked, "I mean, are you heading back into town?"

            "Yes, I only left to give you a piece of my mind." Cheney approached the well in the centre of the village, finding weeds had crawled out from between the stones in all the time the well had been left alone.

            He dumped out the bucket without caring to look what might've been inside, most likely spiders, and tossed it down the well. He cranked the handle until the water below filled the bucket, and reeled it back in. The apprentice reached over the stone and tugged the water closer, resting the bucket on the side again. He scrubbed his hands in the water to get the mud off, then poured the rest of it round the stone barrier to water the weeds. At least something was living here.

            Cheney wandered about, remembering how certain houses looked compared to how they appeared now. He stood before his old home. It was run down, with weeds everywhere and webs in the doorway... It both welcomed him and saddened him. An old memory, that's all it was. He really would never come back home.

            The village was abandoned.

 

            Cheney walked along the pebbles and dirt of his village, moving closer to where Sir Eucliffe was filling in the last grave.

            The man pulled his cart out of the graveyard and glanced over at the church. "Is that your lantern?"

            "Yes." Cheney admitted, "I hid it so I could catch you by surprise. That was when I thought you were robbing my neighbours."

            Sir Eucliffe's lantern hung from the side of his cart. "What were you doing here? I thought you said you were trying to find me."

            Cheney brought his lantern over so they could begin their journey. "I wanted to see my old home. Then I was distracted by a light in the graveyard."

            "Is that right?"

            "Before I go home, I need to dry my clothes somehow."

            Sir Eucliffe gestured to the lanterns as if Cheney was an idiot. "There's some fire right here."

            Cheney creased his brow. "Have you done this before?"

            "I have an outfit for grave digging, I don't need to worry about mud."

            "Are you assuming I've done this before?"

            "No," said Sir Eucliffe, "But there's some heat here if you want to dry your clothes."

            Cheney looked the lanterns over. "I suppose it'll have to do. The only other choice is the fire in the haberdashery... Unless we make a fire."

            Sir Eucliffe squinted at the idea.

            "You're right. I'll use what we have." Cheney opened the compartment on his lantern and held the flame close to his attire, hoping it would dry on their journey.

            They walked back to the town in silence, the lanterns swinging on their rings and Sir Eucliffe's cart's wheels rumbling against the uneven path.

            "Would you want to ride the wagon back? So you can worry on drying the mud off instead of walking?"

            Cheney blushed in embarrassment at the offer. It took him a while to think of an answer too. It was his pride, definitely his pride. "No, I'm afraid you're cart's surface may be diseased."

            The wheels rolled at a slower pace, and Cheney suspected Sir Eucliffe was processing his response. Something in Cheney's chest grew heavy, and he took quicker breaths to calm it down. It was magic, being able to disturb someone simply by speaking. To think he could make Sir Eucliffe laugh, shout, cry, with only a word.

            There had been many men living in his village, but never had Cheney felt this way about any of them. Not even Brother Redfox, the closest man he'd ever known. The Friar had been kind to him, taught him of greater things, helped him in times of need, but Cheney hadn't thought of him the way he thought of Sir Eucliffe. Cheney had never dreamed of hurting Brother Redfox. Never had Cheney wanted to strike him, or see him cry out just for the pure joy of it. Brother Redfox had been more of an authority figure, a father in the family sense. Perhaps it had been because Brother Redfox was a man of the church, and such things were of poor morality.

            Sir Dragneel was an authority figure as well, but Cheney thought of him more as an older brother. Someone closer to him than a parent, more intimate. There were times when Cheney wanted to hurt him, prove him wrong, and see him cry. However, he never thought of making Sir Dragneel laugh, or teasing him just to see what would happen. Perhaps this was because Cheney was his apprentice, and masters were to be respected.

            Sir Happy was like a brother too, or something. He and the haberdasher went hand in hand, though Sir Dragneel had more authority over Cheney.

            Now Sir Eucliffe was a different breed. Cheney wanted to puncture him until his skin ripped open, blood gushing of Cheney's same colour to prove the man was really human. He wanted to make Sir Eucliffe laugh until he couldn't breathe, his body aching and vulnerable. Most of all, Cheney longed to kiss him. He longed to link their mouths together and hold the man down until they were eating each other's insides into oblivion.

            Was this of poor morality? Cheney remembered Brother Redfox preaching of man and man relationships becoming too familiar. Refusing to reproduce would result in the end of mankind. A man and a woman have a responsibility.

            Cheney never saw women as victims of his same duty; he merely thought they were strangers, people of another organ. Same with men, they were strangers, but of the same organ. Cheney saw all people as someone he didn't recognise.

            That is, until he came to know Sir Eucliffe.

            Was it a friendship issue? Would Cheney love a woman after becoming friends with her? It was always possible. He would never know unless he tried. Cheney never really had friends. That must be the case. He wasn't denying his responsibility as a man; he was simply getting to know the improper organ.

            Cheney smiled to himself now that everything was set straight.

 

            They were approaching the town gates, but Cheney's clothes were still soaked in mud. He stopped in his tracks, unwilling to show up at the haberdashery the way he was. Sir Eucliffe stopped as well.

            "You okay? Is it the mud?"

            "It's being stubborn." Cheney tried picking bits off but the mud was still moist. "It'll dry though. I need more heat than what the lanterns can offer."

            Sir Eucliffe pinched his lips together.

            "I'll need to hang my clothes by the fire," Cheney ran a hand down his face. "This isn't working the way I'd hoped."

            "Well," he paused, "You didn't have to jump into the grave with me."

            Cheney rolled his eyes as he put the lantern down, avoiding another fight. He gathered the makings for a fire round the near bushes, and squatted in the road.

            "Are you really going through with this?" He rested the wagon to cross his arms.

            "I can't let Sir Dragneel know I was outside at night." Cheney tried to start a flame before realising he could simply use the lantern. He set the tip of a leaf ablaze and brought the fire out to its new location.

            "Are you really that desperate for his approval? He doesn't deserve you're time or talent."

            "Enough of that talk, I'm not going to be your apprentice. In any case, I don't like working with dead people."

            "They don't make conversation," Sir Eucliffe shrugged. "That's the only difference between your trade and mine."

            Cheney closed the lantern compartment and stood up. "You're forgetting I craft hats and you dig holes."

            "So you'll get better upper body strength. You can still make hats if you want to. You can put them on the corpses for all I care."

            Cheney looked back at the lush grove. "I need some branches for a spit."

            "Use my wagon. What are you trying to do?"

            "Well, I think I'll hang my clothes here instead."

            Sir Eucliffe's eyes widened as if the fire issue was beginning to make sense.

            "Use your wagon, you mean the handles at the front?"

            "Uh, y-yeah," he turned to look at the wagon, then lifted the handles and rotated it so the planks at the head were leaning over the fire.

            Cheney unfastened his cloak and wrapped it round one of the handles, finding the back of it was covered in mud. Probably from being pushed against the wall of the empty grave. He pulled his shirt off as well, draping it beside his cloak.

            "Are you sure the mud isn't dry yet?"

            "It's not," said Cheney. "The walk back was faster than I'd thought, so I'll just dry my clothes the proper way."

            Sir Eucliffe watched him slip his shoes off, and bit a gloved finger as Cheney fiddled with his trousers.

            "Only the front is wet as far as I know." Cheney looked behind him to check the back. "Yes, I think the cloak saved the back of them. I should be able to keep them on and have them dry by standing close enough to the fire."

            Sir Eucliffe swallowed hard and nodded.

            "If you don't mind, I'm going to wait until the mud has fallen off before continuing. Do you have somewhere to be?"

            "Uh, no, no," Sir Eucliffe shook his head at the ground.

            "I apologise for using your cart so freely. Thank you for your help."

            He was quiet for a moment. "Don't worry about it."

            The small fire crackled under Cheney's clothes. It was still nightfall, but by chance Sir Dragneel had woken up and seen his apprentice's bed was empty. At least Cheney was on his way home now. He could always make up a fib, like having to leave to take a pee or something. Though the pot for that was in that same room, Cheney could tell Sir Dragneel he didn't want to wake them up, so moved outside.

            Cheney spoke up, "I can guess what the answer is, but why were you afraid of admitting the haberdashery was your first hat shop?"

            He averted his eyes when Cheney looked up from the fire. "I, uh, I thought I blew my cover. But I guess you still don't know what happened."

            "Was it because you expected me to assume you already owned hats, and by not owning any you were automatically less than a lord?"

            "Well, don't lords own tons of hats?"

            "Not in this kingdom. At least, not hats from Sir Dragneel's haberdashery."

            "I told you-"

            "Why did you come to Sir Dragneel's haberdashery when there are various others along the way?"

            Sir Eucliffe frowned at him as if there wasn't an answer.

            "Was it because there's also a tailory and a cosmetics vendor in the square?"

            "That was convenient," he admitted. Then, he opened his mouth to say something more, but shut it fast.

            "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

            "No, you guessed correct."

            Somehow Cheney found that hard to believe. What else did he have to say, and why wasn't he saying it? Was he refusing to speak simply because he was lazy, or did Cheney actually guess correct? He didn't care whether or not Sir Eucliffe was lazy, or anyone else for that matter.

            "I'd like to accompany you again, if it wouldn't be too bold."

            Sir Eucliffe lit up, "No, no, not at all! I-I was going to ask you anyway."

            "To the cosmetics vendor and what have you?"

            "Yeah," he shifted weight. "You're obligated to help me, as I'm still your customer."

            If that was so, Cheney was indeed behaving too bold.

            "Of course, my lord. Please forgive me, I only recently decided I wasn't going to kill you on behave of the haberdasher. My actions since our last encounter have been vulgar-"

            "What?" He paused, giving Cheney a chance to look up at him. "Stop treating me like your superior. I said my name is Sting."

            "I shall refer to you as my customer, my lord. That's what you are."

            "No, I'm your new friend, Sting."

            "Please allow me to refer to you as _my lord_ , sir."

            "No, not unless you want to be my apprentice."

            "Very well," Cheney flattened his eyes. "When will you arrive at the haberdashery, my lord Sting?"

            "Would tomorrow work best for you?"

            Tomorrow? That was awfully soon. Cheney was going to spend every day with Sir Eucliffe at this point. The thought quickly turned from alarming to pleasant. But then again, it was rather alarming. What if Cheney did something to make a fool of himself? Would Sir Eucliffe still like him? Definitely not, who was he kidding, nobody likes a fool... Why did the lord need to be accompanied anyway? He was just fine on his own; the grave digging was proof. Maybe he only felt comfortable being alone at night. Which is odd, because normally a person should be fearful of being alone at night. Maybe it was a gravedigger thing.

            Cheney did his best to speak up, "Tomorrow... yes."

            "Good," he smiled. "You know, I was going to show up whatever your answer was."

            What a dirty rat. How could he play Cheney like that? And why was it so appealing? Childishness had never seemed charming before he'd met Sir Eucliffe.

            Cheney said, "Pardon me for using your wagon, my lord."

            "No," he frowned. "My name is Sting."

            Cheney shot a frown right back at him.

            "You're a master and slave type of person, aren't you?"

            "I don't agree with slavery, I'm an apprentice and Sir Dragneel is my teacher."

            Sir Eucliffe looked off as if Cheney had missed something.

            Maybe he did, but the question seemed easy enough. A master and slave person: Ergo, a person who agreed with abusive relationships. That was not Cheney.

            "What do you have against teachers, Sting?"

            The man whipped his gaze back onto Cheney at the sound of his name. After a while he answered. "The haberdasher isn't a teacher."

            "Of course he is: I'm his apprentice."

            "You're working under him and going along with what he says, there's no partnership involved, there's no student and teacher business going on."

            Cheney humoured him and continued listening to whatever he was going to say.

            "Once the shop runs out of money, you're on the streets alone. He's bringing you down with him, that's the truth. Why did he ask for an apprentice if he knew he wasn't going to do well?"

            "Sir Dragneel once worked a demanding trade. That was back when I was first beginning my career as his apprentice. As you've said, the nobles are dying off, and Sir Dragneel is becoming poor."

            "That's all in the past. I'm talking about now. That haberdasher should let you go before you face a life scraping for food."

            "How do you know I'm not starving already?"

            Sir Eucliffe's mouth made a gradual drop.

            The fire crackled before them, clouds still slipping across the sky with their shadows blocking out the moon in patches of darkness. The wall surrounding the town stretched across the valley, rounding near the horizon it seemed. The farthest hills were faded with a deep blue, growing more vibrant as they rolled closer inward. Trees huddled here and there throughout the bumps of the countryside, mainly along the body of water flowing into the town. That same river curled round the land to Cheney's village as a source of water for the well, it was also where he and his neighbours would wash time and again.

            "Tsk," Sir Eucliffe dug a small hole in the road with the tip of his shoe. "People will probably remember you as the Friar's boy and offer you free goods."

            Cheney creased his brow.

            "I've never heard of anyone so pathetic."

            "There is nothing you can say to change how I feel about Sir Dragneel."

            Sir Eucliffe spit at the dirt.

            "My lord," he fit Sir Eucliffe back into the customer box. "Would it be too much trouble to swallow?"

            "Apprentice," the man mocked, "That it would. Are your clothes dry yet? I want to get some sleep tonight."

            Cheney scratched a bit of dirt off his shirt to find most of it had dried up. He felt the side away from the fire as well, but the dirt there was still damp.

            "Keep the wagon if you need." Sir Eucliffe started back up the road.

            "Where will I keep it until tomorrow? Do you expect me to pull it into the workshop?"

            Sir Eucliffe turned round. "Uh..." Then he continued walking off with a powerful, "Yeah!"

            "I can't do that, my lord."

            He came to a sudden halt. "Call me Sting, apprentice!"

            "No," Cheney rotated his clothes on the wagon handle.

            "Do it, or I won't pay you for your services!"

            "You already have, my lor-"

            "Not for accompanying me, I haven't."

            Cheney spoke plainly, "Sir Dragneel doesn't offer accompanying services for a price."

            "Give me a number then."

            Cheney turned to glare at the man.

            "What shall it be?"

            "I can't make up a price for something that is not mine to sell, my lord."

            "Call me Sting!"

            "No."

            Sir Eucliffe steamed for a while as Cheney's clothes dried. The fire was dying, but it would get the job done in time. Cheney couldn't understand what he was feeling: His stomach ached at the very thought of Sir Eucliffe, and he was having visions of the man doing him wrong. Cheney knew the man meant well, but he was so childish. It was annoying having to put up with him, but something was blocking the sensation from becoming intolerable. It was as if Sir Eucliffe was indeed the most stubborn and annoying person in the kingdom, but because of the whatever-it-is serving as a filter, Cheney couldn't be upset with him. Was this his upbringing up to no good again? Rather, was this his upbringing serving as a restraint against killing another human?

            Cheney could definitely see himself killing Sir Eucliffe. However, it would be purely out of _I can't love you because you won't let me_. That is, the man was just so intolerable-but-not; Cheney would never find the patience...

            Sir Eucliffe shouted from behind, "Name it! The price!"

            "I can't do that, my lord."

            "My name is Sting!"

            Cheney tried not to lunge at the man, either in rage or intense affection. That is, he would be preaching Brother Redfox's teachings of love towards all people, even those who were beyond unbearable.

            "What's your problem, anyway? Is the reason you act so weird because you were raised in darkness?"

            Cheney swatted an insect to distract himself from answering.

            "Huh? Was it?"

            The fire responded with a crackle.

            "You brick worshipper!"

            "Brother Redfox is not a brick!" Cheney paused, "I do not worship inanimate objects! You, on the other hand, have been acting very strange! What is so wrong about wanting to dress like a woman just to get closer to men?"

            Sir Eucliffe stood in awe, his breathing frail and quick.

            "Forgive me for saying so, but as far as I've been taught, changing how one dresses to get closer to someone else is not frowned upon-"

            "Stop apologising first of all, we're friends! Now, the reason it's bad is because I don't want to be close to women!"

            "Forgive me, but dressing like-"

            "I said stop, apprentice!"

            Cheney paused to collect himself. "Dressing like a woman won't get you any farther from women than dressing like a man."

            He gave a distressed shrug, "That's not the whole point! I need to be with another man, I need to see them and touch them and know they're still there! You're a magic man, answer my cry for help!"

            Cheney made a distraught face at the man's unfamiliar plea. His mind went blank. The only thing he could think to say was, "What cry for help?"

            "You know things about me I don't even know about myself! You said something earlier that changed me! You made me feel something! Do it again!"

            Cheney backed away from Sir Eucliffe's approaching arms. "Did I really do something, or did you simply have an epiphany?"

            "No, no, it was you! You made me feel wanted again," he about closed his arms round Cheney.

            Everything moved very slowly again, just as it had when Cheney felt his hands on Sir Eucliffe. He wanted the arms to close round him, but it made him feel scared, as if this embrace would mean something different from all the others he'd experienced in the past.

            Cheney gave a faint plea of his own as he moved away, "Stop." He didn't mean to say it... He didn't know why he said it...

            "I-I'm-" Sir Eucliffe took quick steps backward. "I didn't mean to-"

            They stared at one another as the lanterns and open fire casted dim lights on anything they could reach before going out. Meanwhile, the moon was fading behind a stream of high clouds as the early morning breeze removed them from the hills. It wouldn't be too long before the first signs of light.

            Why did Cheney stop him? The man was obviously experiencing trauma and reaching out to him for help. What would Brother Redfox do? Well no, that wasn't going to help, seeing as he was the man to put Sir Eucliffe in this mess. Perhaps the question was, having learned how to love: What would Cheney do?

            "S-" he hesitated before stuttering the name out, "S-Sting."

            They stared at one another for another moment in silence.

            "Hold me."

            Sir Eucliffe blinked. He put one boot in front of the other, a pause after each one as if he'd heard Cheney wrong.

            After a few more steps, Cheney opened his arms, and in an instant Sir Eucliffe threw himself onto him. They clasped their bodies together as Cheney stumbled into one of the wagon wheels.

            The clouds weren't there to test them, but the fires were certainly out of time, and it became a challenge to remain hugging until all three fires were out. Cheney could hold out to sunrise. That is, he wanted to make sure Sir Eucliffe would make it through the night. That is, Cheney wondered if the man contemplated suicide when left alone for too long.

            Sir Eucliffe nestled against his ear, dousing it in tears.

            It was sweet. It was the sweetest thing he'd ever experienced. Having someone wipe their tears on his ear. Having Sir Eucliffe's face so close to his own... Having his bare skin on Sir Eucliffe's thin blouse...

            Was it wrong? Why did he want to kiss him again, to apologise?

            It didn't feel like he was asking to be forgiven...

            He wanted to kiss Sir Eucliffe because he wanted to feel the inside of him. It couldn't be helped, he was feeling this way and that was how it was going to be. He didn't want to kiss to be friends, he wanted to feel Sir Eucliffe's tongue on his own.

            Was it wrong?

            No, he was falling for the wrong organ.

            "Sting."

            The man took a breath. "Rogue?"

            "Do you spend time with people?"

            He chuckled, "Dead people."

            "Have you ever kept a woman friend?"

            There was a moment of silence before he asked, "Have I ever had a friend who was a woman?"

            "Long enough that you wanted to kiss her?"

            Sir Eucliffe went quiet again. Then he answered, "I've never wanted to kiss a woman."

            Cheney swallowed. "Have you ever known someone who wanted to kiss a woman?"

            Sir Eucliffe tightened his grip on Cheney's skin. "Um, all of my neighbours loved their wives. I would see people kissing women's hands sometimes."

            "Do you know if any of them wanted to kiss men?"

            "Their wives-"

            "No, the men." Cheney restated the question, "Did any of the men kiss other men?"

            "Um, not that I saw. Men would hold each other and kiss cheeks, but they would never put their tongues together like we did."

            Cheney bit his lip. The urge was getting stronger.

            "Rogue," he said. "I think we're different."

            The wood in the fire fell apart and killed the remaining flame.

            "Are we tempters?"

            Cheney was quick to shake his head. "That cannot be. We're most likely simple outcasts who dwell among other men, and so have no contact with whom we should."

            "Growing up," Sir Eucliffe sniffed, "Did you have friends?"

            "Not really. The closest thing was the Friar."

            "Well I did."

            Cheney watched the hills until the man could say something more.

            "I had many friends. Most of them were girls. I think the person you're describing, Rogue, is yourself."

            Cheney turned into the man's head as if to look at him.

            "I'm a tempter..."

            Cheney tried to hold tighter as the man pulled away from him, but something told him to let the man go.

            Sir Eucliffe walked round the wagon to stand on the other side. He held his arms together as he looked down at the embers of the dead fire.

            Cheney thought he'd check his clothes. They were still a bit damp, but by the looks of it the stains were not coming out no matter the mud's condition. He unwound his clothes and put them back on. By chance, Sir Dragneel wouldn't notice. The haberdasher spent all his time with customers in the shop anyway.

            "I'll buy you new clothes tomorrow."

            Cheney looked up at the man.

            "That's how I'll pay you for accompanying me.'

            Could it be Brother Redfox had been right all along? Was Sir Eucliffe a tempter who needed to be taught a lesson?

            Cheney's story was justified; he'd never had woman friends to be close enough with to want to kiss. It was no wonder he felt strongly about another man, he'd grown up surrounded by them. They were familiar. Well, more so than women.

            But Sir Eucliffe...

            He had lots of woman friends but still fell in love with the wrong organ. It couldn't be true, it just couldn't; the man seemed like a decent human being. He shed genuine tears for Lector. The fact that he may actually be a tempter was noticeably disturbing him.

            It couldn't be true.

            If men loved men the same way men loved women, what was the problem? Brother Redfox had told Cheney about how everyone should love everyone. So why was a man loving a man so wrong?

            Cheney never dreamed he would marry. He certainly never thought about raising a child of his own. Did this mean he valued the improper lifestyle? He was a man of business, an artist. He didn't care for settling down.

            Because he planned on wasting his reproductive services anyway, he could very well love someone of the same organ. It would make no difference whether he loved a woman and never raised a child or never loved a woman at all.

            Why call it love if the sole purpose of it is to reproduce?

            That was no emotion Cheney had ever heard of.

            "Sting."

            Sir Eucliffe pinched his lips together.

            "I don't think you're a tempter."

            The man glanced up at him, the light of the moon reflecting in his tears.

            "You never loved a woman. You loved a man. As long as you truly cared for Lector, I see no wrong in it. The human race can die off if there is nothing to live for but reproduction. Life is not about survival, indeed it is about living."

            Sir Eucliffe stared at him as a tear rolled down his cheek.

            "We are not survivors, Sting. We are human beings."

            The man shut his eyes and broke down in front of Cheney.

            If that wasn't preaching Cheney didn't know what was.

           

         

            The next morning, Sir Dragneel, his assistant, and his apprentice ate the largest breakfast Cheney could remember. Which was to say they each had three vegetables. Sir Dragneel had a good feeling about today. He kept telling them:

            "Something good is coming, I feel it."

            The haberdasher's apprentice crafted the remaining supplies into hats in the workshop. They went through too many hats. Supply had long surpassed demand. Maybe he wouldn't need to remind Sir Dragneel to buy more materials this time. In the meantime, he fantasised about Sir Eucliffe.

            What sort of men was he trying to become familiar with? Suddenly, last night's heated conversation barged into his memory: _Someone Sir Eucliffe could see, touch, and know they were still there._ Without a doubt he was traumatised. He was looking for Lector.

            It was sad.

            Both knowing Brother Redfox had gone against his preaching and that Sir Eucliffe had been scarred by the Friar's actions.

            Cheney was no doctor; he was only a haberdasher's apprentice, once a Friar's boy, and before that a farmer. He couldn't cure Sir Eucliffe if he tried. He could only mend the wound with some philosophical wisdom.

            From the shop, Sir Dragneel roared, "Not you again!"

            Cheney felt a rush through his chest and got up from the stool.

            Sir Happy scolded from the other table, "Don't."

            "Such a puny man," boomed Sir Eucliffe. "Looks like your shop is still here. Though it hasn't really been a week yet."

            "I dismissed you! You're presence is unwelcome!"

            "Did you forget you're little apprentice owes me his assistance?"

            Cheney hopped into the conversation, "Sir, it's no trouble. The last of the hats have been finished."

            The Haberdasher crossed his arms. "Again? That was fast."

            Sir Eucliffe smiled atop his bulging attire. "Not familiar with your boy's efficiency yet? It's a little late to become acquainted with each other if you ask me."

            Sir Happy ran in as well and took Cheney's arm.

            "I don't care if the hats are finished, my apprentice has no further business with the likes of you!"

            "Oh, I think he does. I paid full service."

            "Apprentice, how much was his hat?"

            Cheney thought about lying, but he couldn't do that to the haberdasher. "I'll accompany the lord, sir, it makes no difference to me-"

            The lord barged in, "Offering services like this would make you more profit. Maybe you'd still be in business."

            Sir Dragneel growled, "We don't need your money! Leave or I'll remove you myself!"

            "Don't want money? How do you expect to take care of yourself? Let alone your apprentice. Say, why don't you pass him off to me? He'd be far better off-"

            "Get out!" The haberdasher readied a fist before Cheney stepped in.

            "Sir, his support could determine whether you keep your shop." That was no lie. "Excuse me for saying so."

            "Yeah," the lord smirked as he leaned in to the haberdasher's face. "I'm your last source of light!"

            He wasn't helping the situation at all. Cheney pulled the lord away from Sir Dragneel without thinking. The haberdasher didn't seem to notice. Either that or he wasn't in the mood to remind Cheney of haberdasher etiquette.

            "I told you," he turned to his apprentice, "Today is going to be different. We don't need to rely on this guy."

            "Psh!"

            Cheney kept talking even though it was uncomfortable. "Forgive me, sir, but I think it would be best if I accompany His Lordship."

            The haberdasher bared his teeth at both of them, eyes darting from one person to the other. "No, I said we don't need him!"

            "Sir," Cheney could feel his face reddening. "I'm leaving to finish my business with His Lordship. I will be back before the shadow reaches the first windows."

            Sir happy was brushed off, so he stayed back.

            "Apprentice!" Sir Dragneel reached for the boy's leaving body, but when Cheney didn't respond, the haberdasher knew there was no changing his mind. He stepped backward in to the depths of his shop, forced to wait until the shadow brought his apprentice home.

 

            However, the shadow was not touching the first windows when Cheney returned, nor was it touching the second windows. By the time his apprentice returned, it was nightfall. Sir Dragneel had waited in the haberdashery doorway, everything locked up and put away, a streetlamp in the square flickered against his body. Cheney returned without the lord, as if he'd been casted away as soon as the job was done. His apprentice deserved better than that, but the boy was drifting from his apprenticeship. Already his clothes were soiled from some unknown source, and he was returning back later than when he'd promised. It seemed Sir Dragneel was losing authority over his apprentice. At this rate, Cheney could simply walk out on him one day.

            If losing a friend wasn't enough, Sir Dragneel was losing a friend to an enemy. That God forsaken lord had no business showing up the haberdashery. He needed to make it perfectly clear to Cheney that the lord was up to no good.

            At the fire, the three of them shaved the green skin off their apples. Tomorrow was Sunday. They would save the skins to caramelise after worship. It was a weekly tradition they shared ever since Cheney had become an apprentice.

            The haberdasher watched his dull knife move along just under the skin. His aim was a bit off that night, and so his stream of apple crust was cut short, exposing the blade and his thumb. He tried again and again, but the harder he tried the shorter the line of skin. Just above his eye he could see Cheney keeping his head down. Sir Dragneel ran an arm across his forehead and tried one last time. He dragged his knife through the flesh of the apple, creating a short flap of green. Upon rotating the fruit, the skin became too thin and he pushed the knife into the rest of his hand.

            Sir Dragneel clenched his eyes and looked up and Cheney, a burst of frustration coursing through him. "Leave that lord alone!"

            His apprentice didn't look at him.

            "Yeah," said Sir Happy, "We don't offer these services! Sir Dragneel only let you escort the lord because you need to absorb some sunshine once in a while. Now he's making you run all these errands against our policy."

            Cheney kept skinning his apple.

            The haberdasher continued, "I don't want him to take you anymore. You have work to do here, and learning how to help lords pick up groceries is not going to teach you how to be a haberdasher."

            Cheney said nothing.

            "You asked to be my apprentice and that means staying in the haberdashery where the work is. That lord already paid for your assistance, anything more is stealing."

            "But he's paying me to do this." Cheney took a pouch out of his pocket.

            Sir Happy shrieked, "What's that? Where did that come from?"

            "His Lordship gave it to me. I was going to give it to you earlier, but you were upset, and I was afraid you wouldn't accept it."

            "Throw that garbage out!" Sir Dragneel stood from his stool, "We don't need his help, I already told you!"

            "Sir, His Lordship is the miracle we've been waiting for!"

            The workshop was quiet for a while after that. The three of them in a bit of a shock after what just happened.

            "As long as I accompany His Lordship, he will pay me good money. In this pouch alone I've earned-"

            "No," the haberdasher shouted, "I don't want you near him anymore! We'll be fine!"

            "What have you-" Cheney's throat squeezed tight in all his fear, but he quickly regained himself. "What have you got against His Lordship?"

            Sir Happy shouted as he pointed his apple at Cheney, "You leave him alone, he's no good!"

            "Is it his hair colour? Is it his upbringing over the hills?"

            Sir Dragneel roared, "Stay away from him! Do you understand?"

            His echo lingered round the room until it faded only to the crackle of fire. Cheney put his pouch away in his pocket again, and went straight back to peeling his apple.

            The haberdasher lowered himself to his seat, glaring through his apprentice. He went too far, that much he could tell. But was the message getting to Cheney? Maybe he pushed too much, and now his apprentice would act out of spite, maybe even leave at his own will. He needed to fix this somehow.

            "Look," Sir Dragneel paused, "We're all we've got. This new customer keeps taking you places, and it's been making me anxious. Maybe you want to quit being my apprentice now, I don't know. We don't really talk that often, but I know I like you. We're not just business partners, you're not just any apprentice, we're friends, you know? I don't want to lose that, that's something special."

            Cheney kept peeling his apple. He was too quiet. There was definitely something cooking inside him that Sir Dragneel could never change.

 

 

            Sunday morning, the three of them walked out the haberdashery and headed across the square for the cathedral. Swarming round them followed countless others, all welcomed by the ringing bells. The air was light and cold, everything Cheney could see through the bodies was tinted yellow with the early sun. He knew Sir Eucliffe wouldn't be attending, but he couldn't help but keep an eye out.

            After services began, Cheney was still eyeing the crowd. It was dark with few coloured spots upon objects from painted glass windows, and it was musty with all the people gathered so close. To the right of him on the long bench was a man, squished against his shoulder and arm. A man he'd never seen before, just as always. On the other side sat Sir Dragneel, if it were any other worship Cheney would feel fine, but the argument had left Cheney feeling awkward.

            The haberdasher was hiding something. Cheney was no idiot. The first time the lord had visited the haberdashery, Sir Dragneel acted as if they'd known each other for quite some time, long enough to have started a rivalry, it seemed. It wasn't the possibility of his apprentice leaving the haberdashery that had Sir Dragneel worried, it was the possibility of his apprentice leaving with the lord. Sir Dragneel had never acted so cruel to a customer, he'd certainly never been so riled up as to shout and talk someone down.

            If they were on the verge of losing Sir Dragneel's shop, why wouldn't the haberdasher accept Cheney's money? What was so wrong about Sir Eucliffe that the haberdasher would risk losing his trade over? What in the world was Sir Dragneel and Sir Eucliffe's relationship?

            Cheney was so flustered he nearly missed the entire worship. In closing, the Bishop mentioned a guest speaker. He imagined Sir Eucliffe wouldn't have cared to hear about another authority figure coming to speak of a higher power. He imagined Sir Eucliffe wouldn't have even cared to show up for worship. It was a bit of a let down to realise the chances of Sir Eucliffe actually sitting in the crowd somewhere were very little.

            He would never dream of it, of course, but what if Cheney decided he wasn't going to attend worship anymore? That way, he could spend all the time he would've wasted, listening to phrases he'd already memorised, with Sir Eucliffe. The lord was causing tension between Cheney and Sir Dragneel. He was no good. Even though Cheney would never walk out on the haberdasher, so really there was no harm in it, but ruining a healthy apprenticeship is unacceptable. It was no use though; Cheney couldn't stop thinking about Sir Eucliffe. He needed to see him again. Something about last night had him excited beyond help.

            Perhaps it was the fact Sir Dragneel and his assistant disapproved of it. Perhaps it was picking out new clothes with the lord, and so wearing what Sir Eucliffe liked on him. It was almost like being owned, having one's clothes chosen for them, and then being admired by one's owner in them. Much like a pet.

            He would've fantasised longer about being Sir Eucliffe's pet. That is, until he caught the guest speaker's name:

            "Bishop Redfox, His Excellency has offered to share his findings of-"

            Cheney's lungs tightened in disbelief. Brother Redfox had been appointed bishop? It had been so long since he'd seen Brother Redfox, it shouldn't have been so surprising to hear of the man's accomplishments.

            Was he really going to see Brother Redfox again? That is, His Excellency Bishop Redfox. It was a mouthful, what a honourable title.

            Cheney wouldn't miss next worship for the world. He was actually going to see Bishop Redfox with his own eyes. It's been so long, what if he looks completely different? What if his hair has grown so long, it touches the floor? By chance they could meet. They could share experiences and tales. Cheney could tell him about their old village and how it had come to be abandoned.

            Cheney was instantly reminded of Sir Eucliffe.

            The rage in that man was so strong; he had it in his head that he was going to kill another man, a bishop, at that.

            Cheney was torn. Bishop Redfox was his old friend, his teacher, his family. But he'd caused so much hurt to Sir Eucliffe. Something about the lord was so appealing at the moment. It was as if the man was taking control over his usual thoughts. Normally, Cheney would be happy to see Brother -Bishop Redfox, but now he was disgusted with him. Why was this? He'd only just met the lord, but the emotions the man brought upon him were stronger than those of a friend Cheney had known most of his early life.

            Was it the thrill of the unknown? Sir Eucliffe was a new factor of Cheney's life and so was exciting? Was he comparing a person to a toy?

            Possibly. But a more sensible notion struck Cheney harder: He was in love with Sir Eucliffe. All signs pointed to it, there was no denying.

            He sat in a stupor of warmth and fuzziness.

            That aside, why couldn't he see Bishop Redfox? Would skipping worship somehow enable Cheney to win over his love? It was not like Sir Eucliffe would know whether or not he attended. In any case, he wasn't going to skip worship. He was once a proud friar's boy. The same person who was once his friar was now his bishop, or at least, his guest bishop.

            Cheney would always know he'd gone against his love's wish if he saw Bishop Redfox. Though, he did tell Sir Eucliffe it didn't matter whether the man was religious, Cheney would be regardless. That eased his thoughts a bit. It didn't matter if Bishop Redfox killed Lector, Cheney would still follow the teachings...

            That didn't sound right.

            Something about that made Cheney sick.

            There was no way Bishop Redfox killed anyone. Sir Eucliffe was probably blowing his old memories way out of proportion. What kind of peace preacher would harm another human being?

            One of them was deceiving Cheney.

            He would just have to poke around and find out what really happened.

 

            Sir Dragneel stirred the apple skins with the sweetening ingredients in a small bowl, sitting on the workshop floor. Needle and thread was one thing, but churning fruit and sugar was simply out of the question. It was too much work... it was too much patience... The haberdasher was a natural disaster when it came to confectionaries. And this was no special occasion brought on because of a late night disagreement, this happened every worship.

            He shouted and battled the mix as if it just insulted him. He whipped the apple skins round in the batter, keeping it all in the bowl but still treating the fruit harshly. Even inanimate objects deserved respect to an extent.

            Cheney watched as casual as could be, waiting for the flames to die down. Meanwhile, he thought about his time together with Sir Eucliffe the night before. One moment in particular kept replaying in his head:

           

            _"Keep the clothes until I get a chance to calm the haberdasher down." Cheney said._

_"What will you wear until then? What if he sees the mud?"_

_"Thank you for worrying so much about me, but it'll be fine."_

_"I'm going to see you again." He warned with a smile. "There's nothing that haberdasher can do about it."_

_"I would like that."_

_He stepped closer and leaned into Cheney's lips._

_The sun stopped, the air stopped, the fountain water stopped... It was just he and Sir Eucliffe in the square... in the world... Everything beyond the lord's face was a sudden blur, irrelevant to the now. They were caught in a bubble of immortality, as if they would stay that way forever as time never carried on again._

It was strange, thinking of oneself as being above mortality. Maybe that was because Cheney had gone his whole life worshipping a higher power. Cheney didn't need to be of highest power, he just thought maybe he was of higher power than mortals. -One power higher, in fact.

            Cheney didn't know, he just felt an overwhelming sense of invulnerability that night. He couldn't have been the only one in the kingdom to have ever felt this way. Perhaps this was something to bring up with Bro- Bishop Redfox.

            By then, Sir Dragneel was laying the strips down beside the fire on a metal plate. He'd bought it at an armoury long ago with other intentions in mind, but as it went unused for so long, it became a cooking sheet.

            Cheney thought he should probably mend their relationship soon. Rather, he was going to try and mend it right then.

            "Sir."

            "Yeah?"

            "I appreciate you in my life."

            The haberdasher chuckled and looked back at him. "Where is this going, Cheney?"

            Sir Happy mocked, "He's trying to stitch your relationship back together."

            "I will never abandon my apprenticeship. I want you to teach me how to be a proper haberdasher."

            Sir Dragneel asked, "What happened last night?"

            "It's not about the lord, I want you to know this. I came here to learn how to be a haberdasher, and so that is what I'm going to do."

            "You don't have to do that. You can leave if you'd rather."

            "Sir, I'm serious. What happened last night was inappropriate, and I apologise for keeping you waiting. Yes, the lord gives us money for each day I accompany him, but if that goes against regulations, I won't leave anymore."

            "Cheney," the haberdasher looked off with a troubled eye. "Whatever relationship you have with the lord is not going to happen, okay?"

            They could always meet after closing hours. "I understand."

            "I'm not an idiot, I know you're leaving at night to see him."

            Cheney stared at him. Was this because of the mud stains? So the haberdasher had seen them after all.

            "I'm telling you to stay away from him." He glared at Cheney, "As your mentor, you're supposed to follow my instruction."

            Sir Happy added, "If you go against Sir Dragneel's word, we'll end your apprenticeship. That's how those work. You're not going to listen, you don't want to be taught in the first place."

            Cheney couldn't get himself to blink. This was quite serious, wasn't it? He couldn't see Sir Eucliffe anymore. Even after they'd experienced the closest thing to immortality. Should he explain to the haberdasher that their relationship was more than client and craftsman? That they were in love? Cheney didn't think that was so bad; the lord would provide decent housing and care, and he could take a carriage to work every day. Though it would be far, living over the hills and such... Well, he didn't need to live with the lord; he could just stay at the haberdashery. That was what an apprenticeship was, devoting your life to your trade.

            The only thing different would be Cheney's relationship status. That didn't seem too drastic. -Unless Sir Dragneel had a policy against it. Though Cheney would never know unless he asked. It didn't seem too much of a hassle.

            "Sir," he spoke up at last, "I need to tell you something."

            The haberdasher waited, seemingly expecting the worst.

            "The lord and I have..." He guessed they hadn't declared their partnership yet... Officially, they weren't anything more than client and craftsman really. It wouldn't be until they tell each other straight out when they'd be lovers. Cheney and Sir Eucliffe were still in the early stages, it seemed. He didn't have to tell Sir Dragneel anything.

            Cheney continued, "Been talking. And we agreed that as long as I accompany him, he'll pay for our time together."

            "I'm not selling you to that lord."

            "It's money, Sir. We could use the help."

            "This isn't what I wanted. Things were going to be different. I didn't ask for a worthless charity runner."

            "Sir, if I may. Think about your trade. You've come a long way to keep this place standing, and now you're about to lose it. The lord's money can save it."

            "His money isn't free."

            Sir Happy agreed, "Every time we'll need help, we'll have to beg him for whatever it is he'll want from us."

            Cheney argued, "It's only outings. He never wants anything more."

            "What exactly are you doing with him then?" The assistant asked, "What is so important about your time together that he keeps coming back?"

            Cheney scratched his head. Was being in love a good enough excuse? Well, Cheney knew he was in love, but was Sir Eucliffe in love with him? He must be; Cheney could tell the lord was falling for him long before Cheney even thought about the concept. Even so, that didn't explain why the lord showed up and asked to be accompanied the first time.

            He answered, "I think the lord has anxiety issues when it comes to speaking with other people."

            "No way," Sir Dragneel shouted in protest, "You heard him insulting us!"

            "Oh," Cheney insisted, "That's because he doesn't like masters. He explained this to me. But I told him you were my teacher, and not to offend those of respectable trades"

            "He didn't listen very well." Sir Dragneel messed with the apple skins. "So you're like a sidekick to this guy?"

            "Yes. I think he's mentally unstable as well. From what I hear, he never really talks with anyone, so he hasn't had much practice."

            "Don't pity him, he's not worth all that. I don't want you alone with him anymore. Is that understood?"

            Cheney couldn't believe how many beans he was spilling. He guessed it was about time they stopped talking. "Yes, Sir."

 

            The apples were the sweetest things about that whole deal.

            Cheney stared off at the hall between the haberdashery and the workshop, his legs going numb as they hung off his stool. Back hunched and arms in his lap, his chest felt stuck, like one rope was pulling up on it to his throat while another pulled down on it to his gut. It was heavy.

            Was he feeling regret?

            Sir Eucliffe was just a man. He wasn't the breaking point between life and death. Cheney would get over him soon enough. Where would their love take them anyway? To riches, fortune, happiness?

            He was a haberdasher's apprentice.

            He would commence one day to be haberdasher.

            A haberdasher and a lord...

            Nonsense.

 

           

            The next day, Sir Eucliffe never showed up. Which wasted quite a bit of Cheney's time as he troubled and fussed over his arrival. But now it was worse because there must've been a reason the lord never showed up. Had Sir Dragneel spread the word? No, when would he have had the time to do that? He doesn't even know where the Lord spends his time.

            Oh, Cheney figured the lord must've been digging graves long into the night. He was probably exhausted. Gravediggers probably go about their job round the clock. He could still be digging.

            He felt sorry for Sir Eucliffe for a second, but then remembered he wasn't allowed to do that.

            Somehow this greatly disturbed him. He barely knew the lord, but he was so attached to him. With all his heart he was. How could this be? How could a stranger give him such an intense emotion?

            It was ridiculous, the whole thing.

            Sir Dragneel knew what was best for him. He would continue as an apprentice until he was ready to start his own business. Maybe even become Sir Dragneel's partner in the trade. They would be very successful, and never have to rely on blond nobles for outing money. Cheney could train his own apprentice. They could start a chain of haberdasheries and become owners of their own company.

            Cheney thought about slapping his tongue against Sir Eucliffe's.

            Wait.

            That wasn't where his train of thought was going. He tried to think of haberdashery business again.

            He and Sir Happy and Sir Dragneel could-

            Lick the insides of Sir Eucliffe's mouth.

            No.

            Not everyone, just Cheney.

            Wait, no.

            Not even Cheney. Nobody was licking Sir Eucliffe's anything. He wasn't even in the picture. Cheney was concentrating on the future not his pleasures. He couldn't believe he had to remind himself. His daydreams were getting out of hand. Perhaps he needed to focus on dusting the shop. That was what he was doing after all.

            Cheney came back to reality and continued dusting the mannequins of the haberdashery.

            He shouldn't bother thinking about the lord, what was done was done. Then again, he couldn't think of any reason why merely dreaming was such a crime. It wasn't as if he was going to indulge himself later on, it was only fantasy, like a book. One doesn't slay dragons after reading about it. Just like how one doesn't marry a princess after reading about it. Dreams were no more real than fairy tales.

            _Cheney took Sir Eucliffe by the collar and slammed their mouths together, sucking the man's tongue out. They panted heavy breaths on each other, grabbing at each other's clothes and hair and face. Sir Eucliffe gave a needy whine from deep within his throat._

_"Rogue..."_

            Cheney turned away from Sir Happy to hide a massive blush. He could feel the ends of his lips quivering as well. This was no good. If fantasising was going to affect his work performance, it was better he didn't engage in it.

 

           

            Cheney woke up when something poked his shoulder.

            He turned to see who it was, but no one was there. He sat up to investigate. The workshop was dark and empty, nothing out of the ordinary. Sir Dragneel and Sir Happy were still asleep so it couldn't have been them. Maybe the ceiling was caving in.

            He readied to lie back down when something smacked the side of his face. It landed with a small thud and he was able to find it on the sheets.

            It looked like a pebble. He shot an eye in direction of where it came from, hoping to catch the next one in the act.

            The back door, it was throwing little rocks at him. He went to look further into this, and found a straw poking through the keyhole. Cheney snatched it and opened the door as quietly he could while still seeming irritated.

            Sir Eucliffe smiled from the street.

            Cheney looked back at the haberdasher and his assistant. Then joined the lord outside, trying not to think about his fantasies from earlier.

            "Come with me."

            "It's the middle of the night, and you were shooting rocks at me."

            "Yeah, I was going to knock, but I didn't want to wake your master. But I don't know how heavily he sleeps, so I could've just done it and hoped for the best." He leaned closer as he got back on topic, "So come with me."

            "I can't. I promised Sir Dragneel I wouldn't see you anymore."

            "Why the fuck would you do that?"

            "They told me they would end the apprenticeship. He's getting serious about this."

            "Are you honestly going to believe that? You, that assistant, and his shop are the only things he still has. Soon to lose all of them."

            "I know, but the assistant reminded me of what it meant to be an apprentice: If I won't listen, I never wanted to. But I do, I want to learn from them and be my own haberdasher."

            "Rogue," the lord put his hands on the apprentice's shoulders. "If you were mine, you could own a haberdashery right now."

            "Not if I don't have a license. The most I could do at this point is set up a stand in the square like everyone else. It takes power to own four walls in the town."

            "Which I have. Rogue, a person can buy anything! You could buy this shop if you wanted!"

            Cheney slapped the hands off him. "You know I would never do that."

            The lord laughed, "You're obsessed!"

            "I'm not allowed to see you anymore." He turned for the door, "Goodnight."

            "Are you serious? This is because of the Friar, isn't it? Why you can't stand up to authority. You've been brainwashed, you know that?"

            Cheney squeezed his way back into the workshop. Across the way, Sir Dragneel was snoring as loud as ever, which assured Cheney had not been overheard. He hurried back to bed, but as he landed in the hay, Sir Happy sat up with quick noise of discontent. From his sideways position, Cheney flicked his eyes over the assistant.

            Sir Happy looked about and sat there for a while. The lord was still ranting about something outside, but he never specified whom he was arguing at, of which Cheney was thankful. The languid assistant stood from his sack of hay and moved for the door.

            Cheney's gut clenched itself as if to hold on for dear life. Was there anything he could do? He supposed he could pretend the disturbance had woken him up as well, though it was so faint Cheney would have to pretend it was Sir Happy's disturbed noise that woke him up. The assistant must've been awoken from Cheney's landing. He should've been more careful.

            As Sir Happy bent down to peek through the keyhole, Cheney thrashed about and sat up with a startled yelp.

            The assistant gave Cheney his attention in an instant. "Sir Cheney?"

            He panted and stared off into the fireplace.

            "Did you have a bad dream?" Sir Happy came away from the door as the haberdasher rubbed his face in the background.

            Cheney tried to swallow the developing knot in his throat. He needed to stall long enough for the lord to escape. He needed to sell this act with all the strings of lies he could gather. It was all up to him in this moment.

            "Where am I?" Cheney shouted, "Where am I?"

            Sir Dragneel jumped to his feet and met with his assistant at Cheney's bedside. "What's going on?"

            "Who's there?"

            Sir Happy explained, "He's awoken from a nightmare. He thinks he's still in it."

            Cheney backed away from the voices, "Leave me alone! Who are you?"

            The haberdasher ran back to the fire to have it lit, meanwhile Sir Happy tried to calm Cheney down a bit.

            "It's all right, you're in the haberdashery. I'm your friend, Happy."

            "My friend? No," Cheney wailed, "No, no!"

            "Sir Dragneel is starting a fire, he'll have the place lit in no time, then you'll see. You're all right, Sir Cheney. You're all right."

            "Friends don't hurt each other! Look at me!"

            "You're having a bad dream, it's time to wake up now."

            "No, I see as plain as day! You scraped my face!"

            The fire sparked up and Sir Dragneel fanned it to have it grow brighter, in the meantime he fetched the lantern and lit it to bring it over to Sir Happy.

            "See?" Said the assistant as he took the lantern, "It's me, Happy."

            Cheney stared at him as long as he could before he turned away, feeling quite ashamed of having pulled that off.

            "You're all right," Sir Happy patted Cheney's foot.

            "Is he awake now?" The haberdasher stood before the bed.

            "Yeah, he's okay now."

            Cheney hung his head to hide under his dark fringe. Quite the liar he turned out to be, and having been brought up by the church. He would never do this again.

 

 

            Everything was fine. There'd been no sign of Sir Eu-

            "Oh no," the haberdasher roared, "You get your filthy ass out of my sight!"

            Sir Eucliffe?

            "What?" His assistant ran out of the workshop to help him, "What?"

            At once, Cheney stood from his seat. Should he go? No, he'd better not; there was work to do, and seeing the lord would only depress him further.

            Sir Eucliffe announced, "My apprentice is being held hostage."

            "Yours?" The haberdasher shot back, "I'll beat that smug look clean off your face!"

            His assistant cried, "Sir Cheney is not your toy!"

            The apprentice struggled not to join them, almost as much as he struggled not to fill his head with sexual fantasies.

            Sir Eucliffe said, "I'm here to take what's mine."

            Scuffling echoed into the workshop, they must've been fighting. Cheney should really go now; it would calm the lord down a bit. Maybe he could talk Sir Eucliffe into leaving, maybe for good. Before long, the scuffling came closer, and became more urgent, as if they were trying to keep the lord from crossing the room.

            Sir Eucliffe clawed his way through the hallway and Cheney prepared himself for the worst on his little stool.

            "Come with me." The lord demanded as he clung to the doorway.

            "N-no," Cheney said.

            "Come with me!"

            "No!"

            The haberdasher finally got the lord on the ground. "Stop harassing my apprentice! You may be a lord, but you can't take everything you want!"

            "Get off me! Just ask him, he wants to leave."

            Sir Happy cried, "Stop talking about Sir Cheney!"

            The haberdasher got up and sank his hands into Sir Eucliffe's puffy apparel, gripping his hands full and lugging the lord back into the shop. Sir Eucliffe, on the other hand, threw his arms out and caught hold of the doorframe again. Sir Happy pulled on the lord's legs to assist the haberdasher, managing to lift the man off the ground but no farther away from Cheney.

            "Give up," the lord shouted.

            The haberdasher and his assistant both roared back, "You give up!"

            "Cheney, tell them now!"

            The apprentice couldn't move, so he decided he'd just sit there and watch. The three of them wrestled in the hallway until Sir Eucliffe lost grip of the wood, at which time he was pulled backwards into the shop as if swept off by a water current.

            It was only a bit sad. Cheney was too out of the moment to feel.

            After a while of scuffling, Lord Eucliffe shouted again. "Cheney, tell them!"

            "Get out of my shop!" Sir Dragneel and his assistant had the lord by his arms then, dragging him across the floor as he tried to shove towards Cheney's stool.

            The lord's eyes were locked on Cheney's, teeth clamped and body swimming through the forces pulling him farther away.

            Cheney only stared at him.

            "Get out and don't come back!" Sir Dragneel gave one final shove and the lord was out on the street. "I should teach you a lesson for treating my family like that!"

            "Ha," the lord mocked. "He was telling me he was ready to lea-"

            The haberdasher punched the lord in the jaw, sending him back a ways. He barely turned as he came back inside. The assistant shut the door and locked it, then went to close up shop.

            Cheney took deep breaths and blinked himself back to reality. He was expecting Sir Dragneel to get physical with the lord eventually, but for whatever reason Cheney was quite upset. Everyone deserved a chance. That was why. Yes, that was why. Cheney picked up the hat he'd been working on and tried to continue his work. His hands were shaking. That was strange. Why would his hands be shaking? No matter. Cheney put the hat down for now and tried sifting through the thin box of feathers to find one that would suit the hat. His fingers jittered, his throat swelled.

            Before he knew it, tears were draining from his eyes and he felt himself leaning forward uncontrollably, as if someone were pushing him onto the table. He buried his face in his arms. He wept into his shirt.

 

            The apprentice sat before the fire next to Sir Happy. His lips were stuck in a low frown. He made heavy blinks and took light breaths. The fire cracked like when he and the lord were out by the valley village. He couldn't help it, referring back to his time with the lord, and it was happening rather frequently. The beds reminded him of being hit by a pebble, the door of having to sneak out, the lantern of how he spotted the lord digging a grave...

            Perhaps he needed time from this room. Well, there was the shop. He would arrange some of the stands or switch a few hats around on the shelves. He could take longer opening the windows in the morning. He could even carry boxes round the place for no reason at all. Anything, but he couldn't just sit and fester in this room.

            "Sir Cheney, I'm sorry you had to see that. I don't know you that well or anything, but I could tell you've been through some stuff. Maybe back when you lived outside the wall?"

            Sir Happy was just trying to make him say something. He knew very well Cheney's trauma happened outside the wall. Where else would it have happened? Between the haberdashery and the city gate? Inside the haberdashery? Cheney hugged his legs, perfectly capable of sitting without the small talk. Sir Happy, though, had difficulty keeping to himself. That was one thing he hated about Sir Dragneel's assistant.

            "Are you going to keep it inside?"

            Cheney's brow twitched.

            "You know it only gets worse that way." Without an answer Sir Happy concluded the conversation. "Well, when you're ready to talk, I'm a good listener."

            No, Cheney was not ready to talk. Cheney would never be ready to talk; he'd just lost his freedom, his ability to leave the haberdashery and see Sir Eucliffe. His life was deflating in a heap of loneliness and pain, his senses sucked from him like air, too easy. He'd done nothing to help Sir Eucliffe understand the situation, nor had he done anything to comfort Sir Eucliffe in this time of need and departure. The haberdasher was a slave owner, locking Cheney in the workshop to make hat after hat, doomed to make and make and make until he was dead.

            Wait. Wait, wait, wait... No, that wasn't what was happening at all: Cheney hadn't lost his freedom, he'd only lost the ability to act against the haberdasher. It was his own decision to leave the lord alone and continue as an apprentice, nobody was keeping him hostage. No more, no more pretending to be in love.

            No more, God damn it. No more.

            Cheney's tears ran into the fabric on his knees. Hopefully the assistant wouldn't notice the new streaks on his face. It wasn't his business to know about Cheney. It wasn't Cheney's business to tell him. Sir Happy would just have to suffer, as they all would: Cheney for removing himself from the lord, Sir Happy for being kept in the dark about his workshop partner, and Sir Dragneel for lacking the compassion to tolerate the lord.

            What was the haberdasher's problem with the lord?

            Cheney had sworn he'd brought it up a few times before, but Sir Dragneel would always divert the conversation. He'd say something derogatory about the lord and demand that Cheney not see him. That was the extent to their chats about it. It was time everyone was a bit more honest with each other.

            Cheney walked through the hall and into the haberdashery. Sir Dragneel wouldn't be back from running errands for a while, but he thought he'd prepare himself for the speech in advance. He ran a finger along one of the counters as he thought up a plan before Sir Happy called from the other room:

            "Sir Cheney?"

            What was his problem? Couldn't someone be sad for once? Why was it always _put on a mask_ time around here? _Pretend we don't have feelings_ time. _Assume everyone wants to talk_ time. _Leave the problems to the higher ups_ time. _Leave Sir Eucliffe alone-_

            Oh, there Cheney went again.

            Thinking about the lord wouldn't make the pain leave. Cheney remembered when Brother Redfox left, and how sad he was for months simply because he couldn't get the man out of his head.

            This was just like that. Sir Eucliffe would just have to be forgotten.

            Then, the haberdasher knocked on the door.

            Cheney went to open it, quite fumbled with how his speech was coming along. In fact, he hadn't thought of anything; he'd spent all this time thinking about the lord. Well, all right. He would just have to come up with something on the spot. He'd said so himself hadn't he? It was time they were more honest with each other. Preparing a speech in advance wasn't exactly loyal to that idea.

            So, Cheney opened the door.

            Sir Eucliffe grabbed Cheney's face and smashed their lips together.

            At least, Cheney thought it was Sir Eucliffe. Maybe it was Sir Dragneel. When they pulled apart, and Cheney could see the man standing before him -and breathing onto his face- he could clearly see it was Sir Eucliffe.

            Why?

            Sir Eucliffe whispered onto his skin, "Don't leave me." Then they kissed again. They kept kissing, peck after peck, Sir Eucliffe wouldn't let him breathe.

            Why? God damn it, why?

            "You can't."

            Cheney put a hand on the lord's face to stop him. "What are you doing here, idiot?"

            "Come with me!" His commands were voiceless as though he was trying to say everything in one breath. "You can't do this to me, you piece of shit!"

            "You need to leave. The haberdasher's assistant is watching me."

            He grabbed Cheney's extended wrist and dragged it down from his face. "Come with me, Rogue! Come with me!"

            "I've told you no!" He whispered as well.

            "You're a murderer! You're a liar and a blood thirsty killer!"

            "Stop talking to me! You need to leave!"

            "If you leave me now, I'll die! What else have I got to live for now?"

            Cheney tried to yank his arm back. "I don't know! I don't know, but you can't keep coming back to this shop!"

            "You mother fucking bastard!"

            "Stop calling me names!" Cheney lost control of himself then, and he broke down in front of Sir Eucliffe, crying hysterically into his shoulder.

            The lord squeezed him; he wrapped his arms round him and just squeezed him, trapping Cheney in the lord's thick clothes.

            The assistant called again, "Sir Cheney?"

            Sir Eucliffe left Cheney and pushed him backwards into the shop. He closed the door on himself, just enough to be out of sight.

            Cheney stared at the inside of the door. He shoved all his frustration out in one exhale and practically scraped the tears off his face.

            "Was that Natsu?"

            Cheney coughed for good measure. "I was just venting. Could you leave me alone, please?"

            "Oh, yeah."

            Cheney opened the door and joined Sir Eucliffe on the other side.

            "Come with me!"

            Cheney shook his head and made sure he did it well.

            "It'll all work out, I promise."

            "Don't you have graves to fill?"

            "I was waiting for a chance to see you again. I was planning on sitting out in the square for days until the opportunity came round, but the haberdasher left a few hours later. Well, you know that."

            "You were going to wait as long as it took? That could've been days. You're lucky we run out of food fast."

            Sir Eucliffe shuffled, "Meant to be, I guess. Anyway, come on! I'll show you my castle!"

            "You own a castle? How do you take care of it all by yourself?"

            He said as if he were defending himself, "I don't."

            "You're obnoxious." Cheney put a hand to his face.

            "Well, you're stupid."

            "Sir Dragneel will be back at any moment. You need to leave now. Don't make me call the guards on you."

            "For real?" He whined, "You're just going to abandon me?"

            Cheney hushed him, lest someone hear the conversation.

            "Do you really prefer sitting in a hat dungeon to being with me? Rogue, I-" His throat caught for a moment. "I thought we were..."

            Cheney stared at him.

            "Rogue!"

            "Stop talking to me!" Tears drained from his face again without warning. "You need to go now!" He turned round and went back inside as fast he could.

            Sir Eucliffe pounded on the door.

            "We're closed!"

            "Rogue! You piece of shit!"

            Sir Happy got up from the fire across the hall, and Cheney knew he had to get the lord out of there fast.

            Or did he?

            Was he supposed to take matters into his own hands? Or was he supposed to let the others take care of it? Sir Happy apologised earlier about Cheney having seen the fight. Did that mean he wasn't supposed to get involved?

            Well, time was running out, and Cheney still didn't have an answer. So, he opened the door from behind and spun outside, closing the door as he left. He took a handful of Sir Eucliffe's puffy side and ran him down the shops. Sir Happy would peek outside now and see him with Sir Eucliffe. So, Cheney hurried along the street and turned the corner, round to the main street. Now, Sir Dragneel was going to be walking home from the produce seller. So, Cheney passed the back corridor of the haberdashery and kept going towards the gates. Hopefully, they'd leave town before Sir Dragneel could spot them.

            The lord grabbed Cheney's arm and ran ahead, pulling their huddle faster along the stone. There weren't any guards in the area, so the travel was relatively easy. They transitioned from stone to dirt as they went through the city gates. Cheney tried to stop and have his arm returned, but Sir Eucliffe kept going.

            Cheney's lungs tightened as he was dragged along, he became hyper aware of everything as if time had stopped again, and his eyes caught onto Sir Eucliffe's hair.

            Groves of trees went by, river water escorted them farther into the hills, moonlit pebbles beckoned them into the night. Sir Eucliffe was still going; he had yet to stop. Perhaps he never would. All Cheney could see was the back of him, a strange side angle he'd never found himself looking at before, but he could feel the man's smile. This was the same Sir Eucliffe as before: Every side of Sir Eucliffe was Sir Eucliffe. The fact of the matter was, this was really happening. He was outside the wall with the lord, even after making up his mind that he wouldn't ever do this again.

            He felt himself running faster. He felt himself running with Sir Eucliffe. He felt himself leaving his new life.

 

            Cheney heaved with his hands on his knees, coughing and gasping for a breath. He was all sweaty and panting like an idiot.

            They stopped running a little ways beyond Cheney's shadow village, suddenly out of air and pretty much at death's door.

            Sir Sucliffe pulled his clothes to fan himself. It was much too stuffy in his heavy attire, Cheney could imagine.

            They didn't say anything; they were too busy trying to breathe. It was a bit humiliating. If they had been running from the king, and all the army had been after them, they'd be dead. Not _out of breath_ dead, mind you. They'd be dead, dead. Which was humiliating, it really was.

            "How much farther is your village of sunshine and hills?"

            Sir Eucliffe took a few more breaths. "My castle is not in that village... It's closer... There's more out here than just my hill village..."

            Cheney stood straight to have a look towards the far hills, but he couldn't see any such thing.

            "Hey," Sir Eucliffe waddled over and poked Cheney. "You need to stop playing these games... You said you wanted me to see you... Then you told me never to come back to the haberdashery... How do I know you're not going to change your mind again and go running back to the town?"

            "I wasn't playing games." Cheney creased his brow, "I was, however, having problems with my state of mind. You do things to me-"

            "Yeah," he agreed, "You do things to me too! Like, when I'm alone, I feel this ache in my-"

            "I get scared, but I shouldn't because it's not scary. I shouldn't be getting scared over our relationship."

            Sir Eucliffe slumped a bit and spoke slowly. "You get scared?"

            "Not about you. And it's not like I'm afraid for my life. It's a feeling like being lost, like there's no emotion to return to because I've never experienced it before."

            "Yeah," he agreed and got bubbly again. "I get cold when I think of you, and my hands sweat, and I can only see your face-"

            "I see your face too!"

            "You do? You really see my face?"

            "I-I see your body too-"

            "Yeah! I see you sometimes when I'm alone and I get this ache in my-"

            Wherever Sir Eucliffe was going whenever he brought up aches, Cheney was not going to hear about it. What if he was talking about an intimate feeling? -A loin area feeling. Cheney wasn't sure he could handle himself with that sort of talk. God only knew he would attack Sir Eucliffe on the spot and utterly consume him in the most delicious manner.

            "I like your hair." Said Cheney. "I've always been drawn to your hair."

            "Y-you like my hair that much? I mean, I like your hair too..."

            "And your smile. Particularly your teeth."

            "My teeth?"

            Cheney reeled it in before things started going downhill. "How they shine in the moonlight... Like your hair..."

            "Oh," Sir Eucliffe blushed and looked at the ground. He itched an eye, "Yeah, I like your hair too..."

            Cheney came closer and kissed him.

 

            It wasn't a castle, but it was much larger than the haberdashery. Sir Eucliffe lit one of the candlesticks left by the door on a small table, and carried it along as they crossed the hall. From what Cheney could see the place was completely empty, nothing but stones all around them, making up the floor and ceiling. Some portions of the wall were covered with long tapestries. Other portions held pointed windows, or were bare like everything else.

            He followed the lord up a spiralling staircase, using the outer wall for support as he managed the steep slope. This was what Cheney assumed a dungeon looked like. Though, if this were really a dungeon, Sir Eucliffe would be leading him downstairs. Wait, why would he think Sir Eucliffe would lead him to a dungeon? Well, Cheney could think of many reasons to want to be led by Sir Eucliffe to a dungeon, but it was all a bit hasty: He still didn't even know if the lord felt the same way about him.

 

            Sir Eucliffe's chambers looked to be the size of the workshop, if not bigger. To think the lord slept all by himself in a room that would normally fit three people. Death rates really were at an all time high, weren't they?

            The lord said, "Uh, this will be your bedchamber."

            "Mine?" Cheney nearly yelped. "Where will you sleep?"

            "My chambers are down the hall a ways. I'll show you if you'd like."

            "I thought this was your bedchamber."

            The lord shook his head, at a loss for words.

            "This one is so grand yet it's merely the guest chambers. How much money-" Cheney bit his tongue. What was he thinking? He couldn't discuss money with a client. That would be far too bold, not to mention poor etiquette in general. No, why was Cheney still thinking of Sir Eucliffe like a customer? Wasn't it obvious the two of them were more than that? The lord had even insisted that Cheney refer to him as his first name.

            "I've told you," said the lord. "I can buy anything I want. Would you fancy your own haberdashery yet?"

            Cheney threw knives at the wall with his eyes. Very dull knives, as it were, just mechanisms to relieve himself of his growing frustration. "I'm still Sir Dragneel's apprentice. I've made up my mind; I'm going to live with you as whatever you'll take me for, and work in the walls as an apprentice."

            "That's not how an apprenticeship works. You're obligated to live with your master, that's the code of honour. Living with me would imply your devotion to me as my apprentice."

            "Then I'm going back."

            Sir Eucliffe growled, "Are you completely mad? That haberdasher will be out of business within days, whether or not you're there with him. I suppose once you're all on the street you'll still be obsessed with sticking together. Even if that haberdasher sends you away, you'll still want to stay with him to show how devoted you are to his trade, even though it would be gone at that point."

            Cheney waited for the lord to pipe down.

            "Maybe you're just a masochist. You want to go back because you're exited to go out of business. You want to beg for your next meal, for somewhere to sleep, for mercy. You're village died off and left you traumatised, so now you wander around looking for ways to have your new life die off. You're stuck in a spiral of wanting your livelihood to die so you can feel sorry for yourself like a needy little baby."

            Cheney only stared at him with a flat expression.

            "Why do you even spend time with me if all you want is to waste your time with the haberdasher? Why don't you just stay home and mind your own business? You didn't have to drag me out here! This is your fault! The only reason why we're so far away from your precious haberdashery is because you pulled me out of it! You dragged me out of the city too; cause being outside the shop wasn't god enough, you needed me to be outside the city! You didn't want me too close to your love, the haberdasher. You were thinking I would fall in love with him and he wouldn't be yours anymore. You want everyone to yourself. Nobody can love anyone but you."

            "Are you quite finished?"

            Sir Eucliffe relaxed his posture and stood silent for a moment. Then said, "Yeah."

            "If it's possible, could I be both Sir Dragneel's and your apprentice?"

            "That it would not." Sir Eucliffe scowled at him. "You need to choose right now. Are you going to devote yourself to that haberdasher or me?"

            "You're being irrational-"

            "Am I? Is that all I ever am? Just a looney gravedigger with no sense of moral or direction or shame or common sense-"

            "Sting," his choice of words gained the other's attention. "I love you."

            "Psh," the lord paused. "No you don't."

            "Sting, I love you."

            "You don't even know what love is. You've never loved anyone before."

            Cheney nodded as if he'd made up his mind. "I love you, Sting."

            "No you don't."

            Cheney took steps closer. "I love you, Sting."

            "No you don't."

            He grabbed the lord's shoulders and leaned closer. "I love you!"

            Sir Eucliffe grabbed Cheney's shoulder to keep their faces apart. "No you don't, Cheney! You don't even know what that is!"

            He pushed against the lord's arm, struggling to reach his lips. Meanwhile, Sir Eucliffe struggled against his will to give in to temptation. Soon they were caught in a wrestling stance, pushing off the floor for additional leverage and walking into each other. They took side steps time and again to catch the other off guard or to find an opening. But they kept on each other, both as stubborn as the other to get their point across.

            "Me or that haberdasher?"

            "Don't be stupid, I can be an apprentice for both of you!"

            "It's not about practicality! Whom will you devote yourself to?"

            Cheney took a quick inhale and roared, "You have everything! You can buy anything you've ever wanted: land, stuff, people... The only thing you need is a companion! What about me, Sting? I want to be a haberdasher!"

            "I can make you a haberdasher!"

            "I need training and a license! Sir Dragneel will get me those things in time! Why do you want him to lose his shop and make that impossible for me?"

            Sir Eucliffe panted in all his anxiety. "You're using your master for your own gain? What's wrong with you?"

            "I'm not using him! I'm putting my situation in terms that you would understand! And I thought you hated masters!"

            "I do, but you never did before! I thought you might've been coming down with something!"

            "If I'm going to become a haberdasher, I need Sir Dragneel's apprenticeship!"

            Sir Eucliffe gritted his teeth.

            "If you would just wait for my training to be complete, I could devote my whole life to you! So you stop being such a needy little baby and wait for me!"

            "Fuck you! In a matter of days that haberdashery won't exist! Then what will you do about your apprenticeship, Cheney? What you need is to find a more accomplished master!"

            "It's not only about training either! Sir Dragneel is my family!"

            The lord ploughed into Cheney, forcing their huddle along the floor a ways. "Master and apprentice relations don't have that kind of familiarity! It's strictly business with those bastards!"

            "Not with Sir Dragneel! And hate me all you want, but not with Brother Redfox either! How many masters have you had, Sting? What makes you so knowledgeable about society? You're just a gravedigger!"

            Sir Eucliffe roared and ploughed into Cheney again, slamming their huddle against a wall. Their arms shook against the other's force.

            "Just wait!" Cheney yelled, "And after I become a full fledged haberdasher, I'll come back for you!"

            "So you've chosen that fucking haberdasher?"

            "Yes, but you need to understand! I can't fulfill my dream unless I do this! I do love you, but you need to wait!"

            "No!" Sir Eucliffe began to cry, "I can't wait anymore! All you ever do is confuse me. If you'd rather live with the haberdasher then just go. Don't hurt me anymore."

            Cheney dropped his hold on the man, which invited the other to stop as well. At that moment, Cheney lost control of himself, and he leaned into Sir Eucliffe. He kissed the man and waited there for only a second before Sir Eucliffe kissed him back.

            They sucked each other's lips in unison when Cheney finally snapped out of it, pulling away as fast he could, just as Sir Eucliffe's tongue was entering. They stared at one another in disbelief, or bewilderment, or something rather. In any case, Cheney felt a rush of comfort, as if all his troubles had melted away, knowing Sir Eucliffe indeed wanted the same thing. He should continue kissing the lord if it was a kiss the man wanted.

            He went in and sucked Sir Eucliffe's tongue right out the man's mouth. They ran their tongues together, holding one another round the head in attempt to keep their huddle from breaking again. The lord exhaled on Cheney's face, his breath shaking more and more. It all became too much for the lord it seemed, because straight after, he began removing Cheney's clothes.

            Oh, good God, did Sir Eucliffe understand what he was inviting? Cheney had been waiting for this so. In all his time away from the lord the only thing he could do was fantasise about how they would do this. How Sir Eucliffe would look and behave and what he would do. Needless to say, Cheney's desire for flesh on flesh had built up, and Sir Eucliffe was about to unbind all that sweltering hunger.

            Cheney dug through the lord's clothes, releasing the heated skin underneath. Sir Eucliffe helped take his arms out he trembled in some sort of anxiety or hunger. The lord was naked and held against Cheney's softer body as the apprentice embraced him. They worked at removing Cheney's clothes, while grinding against one another as best they could, overcome by need. Sir Eucliffe pushed the other to the ground, coming down on top of him.

            Cheney grunted under the pressure, still trying to remove his trousers. After a moment he forgot his clothes and dug his fingers between the lord's shoulder blades, more interested in keeping their bodies together. Sir Eucliffe moaned into the other's mouth, which gave Cheney a rush through his stomach. The dark haired man spread his legs, better focussing Sir Eucliffe's thrusts.

            The lord ran his dick atop Cheney's, a cheap fabric between them growing hotter with their friction. They made do with it, if it meant they could hold each other a bit longer.

            Sir Eucliffe was everything the apprentice wanted. His sloppy kiss was so satisfying... His mouth was so wet... Cheney fought a dizzy spell to keep in the moment. All he wanted to do was eat the lord's face. Just as the dark haired man thought would happen, Sir Eucliffe quickly became frustrated and stopped what he was doing to yank Cheney's trousers off.

            "Sting," he beckoned the man back, and soon Sir Eurcliffe was on him again.

            They ground their balls together, the blond sitting on his friend. Cheney kept his legs apart, moving his body to get more of Sir Eucliffe on his groin. The lord clamped a hand round both dicks, rubbing the heads together.

            Cheney grunted, hardly able to control himself. While the other was busy, Cheney pushed the lord off him, climbing on top. He closed his teeth round Sir Eucliife's neck, sucking the skin a different colour.

            The blond grabbed a fistful of Cheney's hair, shouting in what sounded like pleasurable pain. It didn't much matter to the apprentice; he was going to do what he wanted to Sir Eucliffe regardless.

            As he moved along to occupy himself with a fresh area of skin, Cheney grabbed the lord's dick. He savoured the way it felt his palm, how it was thick and hot. He pulled his grip up the shaft until his fingers ran across the tip. He then squeezed his fingers together to start up a milking motion, which the lord ground into. Cheney felt the blond's throat tense under his tongue, and he couldn't help but crave more when the lord swallowed against Cheney's hold.

            "Ah!" Sir Eucliffe roared, "Damn it!"

            Cheney continued to give the lord little discoloured marks down to his collar, leaving a clustered trail in his wake. He moved his hand up and down the blond's dick to find where it was most sensitive.

            Sir Eucliffe moaned and brought a hand over to better touch himself. The two of them fondled the lord's member as Cheney pressed their bodies together as before. Sir Eucliffe pushed himself into Cheney as best he could, trying to grind their balls together again. The dark haired man sat down harder, slamming their groins against each other.

            The lord grunted a needy plea. Cheney assumed the blond had done this before, and so trusted there to be some kind of magic in rubbing balls together. He humped against Sir Eucliffe's dick, earning a frustrated moan from the lord.

            "Rogue, more..."

            Cheney swallowed and rubbed his groin harder against the lord's. Sir Eucliffe panted through his nose, rubbing his dick faster. The magic might've been working for the lord but it wasn't doing much for Cheney.

            The apprentice threw Sir Eucliffe's hand away and took the lord's dick in his mouth. The blond bared his teeth as he gasped, holding his breath in his chest. Cheney pushed down the lord's member until he gagged on it, his throat closing round it and making Sir Eucliffe groan. He wanted to devour it, oh how he wanted to just to devour it, but his body wasn’t going to let him. Cheney drooled as he pulled back, coughing once. He closed his mouth round the dick again, determined to get his fill, but kept from travelling too far lest he choke himself a second time.

            Sir Eucliffe trembled. He reached for his dick to help Cheney but the other slapped his hands away. In response, he took the apprentice's head and tried to pull the man down farther himself.

            Cheney grunted in surprise and pushed away from the blond. If the lord was going to be like that, Cheney had to restrain him somehow. He grabbed Sir Eucliffe’s wrists and threw a leg over him, saddling the man backwards. Cheney sat on the lord’s arms, still holding his wrists together.

            “Rogue,” he scolded from behind the apprentice.

            In this position, Sir Eucliffe could cradle his member quite easily, with a hand locked on either side of it, rubbing against it as they now settled between his thighs. Cheney thought he’d turn the lord’s wrists inwards to twists his friend’s hands away, pointing Sir Eucliffe’s fingers away from each other. The lord struggled, trying to pull his arms out from under Cheney’s weight. This form of confinement seemed to work nicely. Now all the lord could do was react. Cheney’s chest ached at the thought of having full control of the situation. He could do as he pleased.

            The dark haired man leaned forward as best he could to kiss Sir Eucliffe’s member, scooting higher up the man’s arms if necessary. Eventually he got the blond’s dick between his lips, though he was sitting awfully close to Sir Eucliffe’s face. He dragged his tongue across the head, feeling the lord trembling beneath him.

            Sir Eucliffe panted through his teeth as Cheney continued to use his tongue, the apprentice closing his lips round the blond’s member.

            Cheney did his best to satisfy himself though he could only pamper a small portion of his friend. He kept to the head, as if this bit of Sir Eucliffe’s member were the first bite of a sweet fig, plump and needing to be savoured. The rest would come later; this was only the invitation, the teaser to the fruit.

            The lord tried to keep up a heavy breath with the weight on his chest. “Ah,” he whined, desperate for more of Cheney.

            He grazed his teeth across the member, pulling his jaw off the head when his teeth came together, repeating this process as if he were trying to dig through the skin.

            Sir Eucliffe threw his head back against the floor, grunting in a rage of lust, bucking his hips into Cheney’s restraint, and trying to pull his wrists free.

            “Sting,” he warned.

            “Let me go!” The blond huffed. “Or hurry up!”

            “Stop moving, I need this.”

            “Rogue, please.” He relaxed to the best of his ability, shaking under the apprentice.

            “If it were up to me, I’d devour you.” Cheney looked over his shoulder. “I know you want this: I see it in your burning eyes, I smell it all over you… I want you just as bad as you want me, you know. But I’m not experienced enough to even satisfy myself.”

           “Rogue, usually I love your monologues for being inspiring and stuff..! But I really need you to do something..!”

           “I just want you to know I’m not even puncturing the surface of my fantasies.”

           Sir Eucliffe grunted.

           “I want you to know that. I would do so much to you…”

           “Rogue, please..! Just touch me…!”

           The apprentice went back to swallowing his friend’s member, trying to cram it all in his mouth without gagging on it. Sir Eucliffe cried out in frustration, still wanting more. Much more. But that would be for a later time in their relationship, after they’d done this a few more times and grown familiar with each other’s bodies. At the moment, Sir Eucliffe wriggled under his friend until he came on the man, spitting straight into Cheney’s mouth. It was such a relief… It was erotic… Recently, it was everything he’d wanted… But he knew he could go longer. He understood this was only their first time together, and so naturally neither of them would last very long. At least he thought so. He couldn’t see the apprentice having done this before, but maybe Cheney would surprise him. Did friar boys touch themselves? Sir Eucliffe was about to find out.

           “Ah,” the apprentice gasped for air after having swallowed.

           “Rogue,” he wasted no time saying. “I want to do that to you.”

           After a moment to catch his breath, Cheney removed himself from his friend. At which time, Sir Eucliffe flipped over and mounted the man.

           “I wanted,” growled Cheney, “To hurt you…”

           His friend spun around to meet with him face to face, staring down into red eyes. “Then do it.”

           Cheney blinked, suddenly at a loss for what to do. He grabbed Sir Eucliffe’s hair with both fists, earning a noise of satisfaction from the man. In all his days of listening to preachers, this was the most encouraging thing he’d ever heard. He went ahead and pushed Sir Eucliffe farther along his torso, his friend getting situated between his thighs. Cheney then pulled his friend down on his swollen member, the blond’s mouth already open, and ordered the man to suck him. All without saying a single word. There was something powerful about that. It felt greedy, but Cheney really liked the idea of having forced Sir Eucliffe to obey him. No speech. No bribery.

           The blond had his fair share of trying not to choke, but it was inevitable. The whole thing was agonising. How they just wanted to tear each other apart but their bodies were so inexperienced.

           “Sting,” he moaned.

           The sounds Sir Eucliffe made with Cheney’s dick in his mouth made the apprentice dizzy. So dizzy…

           “Ah, Sting…”

           “Mmm,” his friend hummed round him.

           “This is better, isn’t it? Than what I was doing to you?”

           Sir Eucliffe swallowed before continuing.

           “It’s not fair… It’s not fair..!”

           His friend came off him and kissed his dick a few rounds. “We’ll just have to keep doing this until you’re able to please me.”

           “I want to.” Cheney glanced down at his friend. “I want to satisfy myself as well. But in doing so, there’s not a doubt in my mind you’ll be pleased.”

           “You talk a lot…”

           “You said you liked it.”

           Sir Eucliffe cowered behind his friend’s member, avoiding eye contact. “Yeah, but there’s a time and place for everything.”

           “Fine.” Cheney went back to laying straight and closing his eyes. It might've been a step backward, but at least they weren't fighting anymore.

           Meanwhile, Sir Eucliffe put the dick back in his mouth.

           This was awkward. Neither of them were saying anything. Well, not that they weren’t avoiding conversation before. But now there wasn’t any grunting or hinted frustration to drown out the silence. Sir Eucliffe had his mouth on the apprentice, and Cheney was expecting an orgasm at the lord’s pace. That was it.

           It was hard to believe they’d gotten over their recent argument just like that. Sir Eucliffe was definitely still upset. He just wasn’t being as expressive about it. He hated authority figures, and Cheney was adamant about returning to the haberdasher. That had to have left an impression on Sir Eucliffe. Especially after he and Cheney had established a sort of romance and the apprentice still chose the haberdasher over the lord. With how sensitive he was, there was no way Sir Eucliffe was going to simply forget about that. He was putting on a mask, it seemed. A way to get Cheney to forget about the fight, to let go, only think about the present, be here and now with the lord… That’s what it felt like. Heaven knew what was really going on in Sir Eucliffe’s head.

           Cheney asked to kill the silence, “Is this your first time?”

           His friend blushed but said nothing in response.

           “Not that it’s horrible.”

           Sir Eucliffe freed his mouth. “You want this, don’t you?”

           “Yes.”

           “Then stop making conversation with me.”

           Cheney knew the lord was still upset. He relaxed himself, and tried thinking only about what he was physically feeling. How warm Sir Eucliffe’s mouth was, how the lord trembled against him, how much he wanted to please Sir Eucliffe…

           He wanted Sir Eucliffe so bad. But he didn’t know how to have sex properly. There was a way something like this was done. There were rules… levels…

           Were there? Were there rules to sex? How did Cheney come to believe that? He’d never spoken to anyone about sex. Nobody told him anything. How did he come to think about sex as having so many boundaries?

           There weren’t any.

           Sex was anything the individual wanted.

           Cheney had all the potential in the world.

           And he wanted Sir Eucliffe.

           The apprentice bucked his partner off his hips, forcing Sir Eucliffe to let his penis go. He then shoved the lord back and came down on top of him.

           The blond took heavy breaths from his mouth, staring at him in surprise.

           Cheney took his own dick, not sure if what he was about to do was appropriate… or if anyone else in the world did it… but he was going to take this man however he wanted. He guided his penis to Sir Eucliffe’s buttocks, pressing just the tip of it into the lord’s entrance.

           Sir Eucliffe’s face turned bright red, his body closing round the apprentice.

           Oh, that face was marvellous. Cheney lusted to see more like it. He sank into the lord at a slow pace, fighting against Sir Eucliffe’s body as it tried to force him out. As he moved deeper, Cheney observed his partner’s new expressions with a sadistic craze. He wanted to see his fantasies come to life. He wanted to see Sir Eucliffe in pain.

           The blond grunted through an open mouth, chin turned down practically resting against his chest, watching the inevitable. His back straightened against his will, his brow sank to match his expression of horror and enjoyment, a cruel sort of confinement he’d been placed in.

           Cheney went in as far as he could, and with an arm positioned on either side of the lord, he felt such a rush of dominance. He was going to take Sir Eucliffe. He was going to make Sir Eucliffe his. Starting with the same slow motion, Cheney nudged along the inside of his partner, getting comfortable with how it felt inside another person.

           The blond whimpered, making the apprentice’s chest stir.

           It was delicious. He wanted more. But he knew he had to be comforting if both parties were going to enjoy this. “Sting,” he offered.

           “R-“ was all he said. “R-“

           “Are you okay?”

           “Ro-“ He gasped again and turned his head up, his hair bushing along the stone. With his mouth hanging open, he stared ahead for a few moments before squeezing his eyes shut.

           “Are you okay?”

           Then his teeth clenched. He took Cheney by the shoulders and pulled him down, pressing their bodies together. He wrapped his arms round the apprentice and held him there.

           Cheney’s elbows were in the air. It was a bit awkward. It was also harder to move in and out of Sir Eucliffe. Perhaps that was the idea.

           “Ah,” he whined, “Ow…”

           “Are you okay?”

           “I’m fine,” he growled.

           Well, this brought a sudden halt to his fantasy. If Sir Eucliffe was in this much pain, perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to continue with such a strong passion. He should’ve known their bodies wouldn’t be able to keep up. Cheney could see his dream, sure, but if they didn’t train for it properly, they would never reach it. It was just like his work at the haberdashery. He could see a finished hat, but that didn’t mean he would automatically be able to sew it. He needed practice. Cheney supposed sex did have a few limits.

           “Faster,” Sir Eucliffe spat.

           At that moment, Cheney’s gut felt as if it’d fold in on itself. Like he was going to be sick, but he loved it. He tried to get back into a rhythm, pushing into Sir Eucliffe at a faster pace.

           The lord turned his mouth into Cheney’s ear, grazing his teeth through black hair as he panted. After two thrusts, he grumbled, “Auh…”

           “Are you okay?”

           “It really hurts…”

           “Do you know if we’re the only ones to attempt this? Man and man?”

           “We can’t be.” Sir Eucliffe grunted. “The world’s not that perfect.”

           Cheney pulled away from the lord to remove his dick. “How do other men accomplish this?”

           Sir Eucliffe was heavily flushed. He sat up to join the apprentice. “I don’t know. But we can figure this out.”

           “It… It feels like there’s a lot of resistance inside you. Could that be the reason you’re in so much pain?”

           The lord kept his eyes down. “Yeah… I think I’m just a little stressed… I don’t know. This is… Rogue, this is my first time.”

           “Oh,” Cheney reassured, “It is for me as well.”

           “So, I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to relax enough that you would be able to move inside of me.”

           “Perhaps if you were wet. Like a woman.”

           Sir Eucliffe was quiet for a while. Then he said, “We could use spit.”

           Cheney nodded.

           Neither of them wanted to look at the other. Cheney, for one, was much too embarrassed. He’d just told himself this whole story to get back into the mood. That was moments before Sir Eucliffe expressed just how painful it all was. Dropping to such a low state from that high was humiliating in itself, whether or not Sir Eucliffe knew about it. Then they both admitted to being virgins. That was humiliating as well. Even though Cheney grew up a friar’s boy. He really had no reason to be so embarrassed, but he couldn’t help it.

           Sir Eucliffe put his fingers in his mouth, drooling all over them before sticking them up his ass. He continued to do this until he thought he was slick enough. He then invited Cheney to move closer so they could try again.

           The apprentice pushed into him once again. It was much easier, but Sir Eucliffe was still resisting. “Sting, you’re-“

           “I know!” He stared at the floor, propped on his arms as they went behind him. He took slower breaths, forcing himself to loosen up.

           Cheney wondered if his friend still wanted to go fast. He started with a slow pace anyway, half waiting to be snapped at for it. Maybe he should say something. “Sting.”

           “Hmm,” he closed his eyes.

           Cheney leaned into the lord, trying to keep up what he was doing with how Sting was trying to remain upright. He kissed the blond, forcing himself deep into Sir Eucliffe’s mouth, pushing him down using only his mouth.

           The blond lowered himself to his back. “Mm..”

           Cheney had an arm on either side of his friend, continuing to move along the lord’s insides. He started a faster movement then, thinking it was probably fine. If not, he would just slow down again.

           Sir Eucliffe shuddered against him. He drew a small, “Hm..”

           The apprentice took his lips away. As he looked down at Sir Eucliffe, he noticed the lord’s mouth was still open, as if waiting for Cheney to come back. Well, Cheney was on a completely different note: He wanted to heat things up already. Now that they could have sex without either of them experiencing any pain, he wanted to reacquaint himself with his fantasy.

           The apprentice asked, “Are you okay?”

           “Stop asking me that…”

           “Does it embarrass you?”

           Sir Eucliffe opened his eyes, glaring up at the apprentice. “Why would it embarrass me?”

           “You’re ashamed of being a virgin, aren’t you?”

           “Was your friar like this? Able to read people? Is that where you get it?”

           “I’ve been surrounded by people my whole life.”

           “Yeah, so have I. But I never had a friar to tell me stuff.”

           Cheney said, “It wasn’t Brother Redfox who taught me to read people. I picked that up on my own. Unlike you, I keep to myself.”

           “That’s a lie. You talk to me. You talk to that haberdasher.”

           “I’m just trying to communicate. I tell you stories of inspiration to settle you down, and let you know you’re not in the wrong. Other than that, I’ve lived a very quiet life.”

           “Are you telling me I talk too much? You’re the one with the long monologues.”

           Cheney said, “I just think I have more experience being a wallflower than you. If you’re always in with the excitement, you lose the ability to stand back and watch people. That’s how I learn. I stand out from others and observe them. That was how I spent most of my time as a Friar’s boy. Simply watching the crowds.”

           Sire Eucliffe kept his eye on their groins, watching Cheney push in and out of him. “You read me so well. Am I that predictable? Am I just like everyone else?”

           “You’re hardly like everyone else.”

           “What’s that supposed to mean?”

           Cheney stared down at Sir Eucliffe. “What do you want me to say? You get upset when I tell you one thing, but you get upset when I tell you the other.”

           “I’m not upset!” He shouted at their legs. “I’m just really nervous. I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know what to say. Can’t you pick up on any of this?”

           “Yeah, it’s obvious you’re nervous. But so am I, so don’t worry so much about it. How else are we supposed to act? It’s our first time.”

           Sir Eucliffe turned his head to watch the wall.

           “Sting, I don’t want to fight anymore. I just want to be with you.”

           The lord twisted his lips inward, trying not to say anything.

           “I know what I said earlier hurt you, but can you look passed that? Just for right now?”

           The lord looked as if he was going to cry.

           “Sting?”

           He inhaled through his teeth, only to clench his mouth back together.

           Cheney stopped his hips. He waited for the lord to say something… to do something… Should he say the lord’s name again? Should he ask what was wrong? Should he pull out? He didn’t know what to do at this point. He tried, “Sting?”

           “I’m… I’m going to allow you to return to that haberdasher.”

           Cheney stared down at the blond’s profile. “I was going to anyway-“

           Sir Eucliffe looked up at his friend, a tear running across his face. “I want you to be happy. I want you to get your haberdasher license. S-so you can open your own shop. I’ll pay for it. If you want.”

           “Sting…”

           “But you have to go back.” He avoided eye contact. “I understand.”

           Cheney kissed his friend, pulling away with a loud smack. “I love you.”

           The lord began tearing up again, laying one side of his face against the floor again, as if to ask for support from it.

           “I’ll come back.”

           Sir Eucliffe sniffed.

           “I’ll get my license and come back for you, Sting.”

           He pinched his lips together as they shook beyond his control.

           Cheney kissed him again. “Let’s not think about that right now. I’m still here.” He nuzzled his face into Sir Eucliffe’s hair. “I’m right here, Sting. It’s okay.”

           The lord pouted as he closed his arms round Cheney, crying against the apprentice’s warm body. They hugged for a while until Sir Eucliffe felt ready enough to continue. Until then, they pecked one another’s cheeks and ears. Cheney brought himself higher to kiss his friend’s lips. The lord put one hand on Cheney’s head, running his fingers through dark hair.

           It didn’t take too long after that for Sir Eucliffe to replace his recent sobbing with small moans. He pushed his lower stomach into Cheney’s hips, inviting his friend to start up again.

           The apprentice moved along Sir Eucliffe’s insides just as before, starting with a slow pace that would pick up when the time was right.

           The blond panted on Cheney’s lips, staring at them with heavily lidded eyes.

           “Sting, you feel...”

           He blushed. Without a reply, he asked a breathless, “What?”

           Cheney endured a dizzy spell as he thought about admitting this. “You feel so good.”

           The lord gave a nervous sound as he turned from Cheney.

           “Are you embarrassed?”

           “How can you just say that?”

           “Sting, I want you.”

           He looked at Cheney with a timid air.

           The apprentice took a mouthful of his friend’s lips, clamping round them as if to swallow them whole. As he pulled off them, he growled, “Ah, I want you so bad.”

           “Th-then take me…”

           Cheney was hesitant at first, but he didn’t want to keep his friend waiting. He tore himself from Sir Eucliffe’s hold to situate himself closer to a seated position. As he propped himself up on his hands, he rammed his hips into Sir Eucliffe, seemingly puncturing straight through the lord.

           “Ah!” The blond pulled his knees in as Cheney kept going, unsure of where to put them.

           Cheney locked his hands on his friend’s hips to keep him in place. He grunted as the lord tightened round his member.

           “I’m sorry.” The blond had his eyes closed. “Ah, Rogue!”

           Sir Eucliffe was so hot round him. His entrance seemed to pulse as the lord fought to keep it loose, chewing on the apprentice in short rounds. Cheney shook in all his desire. He wanted Sir Euclife. He wanted to consume him… to make him writhe and scream… He dragged his fingers down Sir Eucliffe’s torso, riding he blond’s muscles all the way down to his groin.

           His friend huffed. “Oh yes…”

           The apprentice’s chest stirred at the sound. “Do you like that?”

           Sir Eucliffe moaned as the other did it again. “Yes…”

           Cheney turned his nails down to add more resistance, skimming along Sir Eucliffe’s skin with a rougher touch.

           “Ohh,” he trembled. “Rogue, yes…”

           Cheney couldn’t believe how dizzy he was. He took heavier breaths as he went on, digging his nails into the lord’s skin and making the blond moan louder.

           “Ah!” His legs draped lifeless over Cheney’s hips.

           The apprentice growled, “I want you, Sting.”

           A wave of anxiety shivered up the lord’s torso, curling his shoulders in as he leaned his head back.

           Cheney gripped the lord’s cock with both hands, watching his partner squirm. “Oh, God…”

           Sir Eucliffe panted at the wall a ways off behind him.

           “I want you, Sting..!” He squeezed his partner one finger at a time, kneading down his length.

           “Ah!” The lord tried to hump into Cheney’s hold, reaching his arms out to either side.

           “Sting you- This feels-”

           The lord pushed himself off the floor with his elbows and slammed their faces together, licking Cheney’s mouth until it opened for him. He threw his arms round his partner and clung to Cheney’s shoulders, rocking on the apprentice’s hips.

           Cheney pulled and pushed on the lord’s dick, sliding the foreskin on and off the head. He wanted it in his mouth again, but he wanted to stay inside Sir Eucliffe as well. Damn it. He wanted all of it. He wanted all of Sir Eucliffe all at once. He ran his tongue all around the lord’s mouth, savouring his insides, choking him, swallowing him. Cheney felt disgusting. But he loved it.

           Sir Eucliffe moaned, exhaling on his partner’s face.

           Cheney played with the lord’s dick in ways he’d never thought to do so, trying to satisfy this burning hunger: Pinching it, scratching it, twisting, tugging, bending…

           “Auh!” The lord broke their kiss for only a moment, then screamed in Cheney’s mouth as the apprentice leaned back into him. He drew his arms back in and gripped Cheney’s hands, funnelling whines into the apprentice’s mouth.

           Cheney bit his partner’s neck, messaging Sir Eucliffe’s dick against the blond’s will. It wasn’t too long before the lord pried Cheney’s hands off, the two men’s fingers intertwined in a wrestling knot. They held their arms out to the sides as one of them struggled to lower them while the other struggled to raise them. Soon enough, Cheney lost interest in his partner’s dick and let Sir Eucliffe guide his hands higher.

          The blond panted across Cheney’s ear, bumping his chest into his partner’s as he sat harder on the other’s lap.

          Their hands were above their heads, held stiff in the air doing nothing. As Sir Eucliffe’s hold loosened, the apprentice brought his arms back down and grabbed handfuls of the lord’s ass.

          “Mmm,” the blond grunted into dark hair.

          Cheney took another bite round Sir Eucliffe’s neck, sucking the skin another colour.

          “Rogue!” He put one hand on his partner’s head, the other he rested atop one of Cheney’s, seemingly gripping his own ass. “Y-yes! I’m scared, but yes..!”

          The apprentice moaned into his partner’s skin, groping Sir Eucliffe as hard he could in long rounds, releasing his prey on and off. Just when he’d let Sir Eucliffe believe he was done, Cheney would take another handful.

           Sir Eucliffe whined to the ceiling each time.

           He didn’t want Sir Eucliffe to whine at the ceiling. Or the wall. Or the floor. Or anything else. He wanted Sir Eucliffe to whine at him.

           “Rogue!”

           Okay, that was better. But that wasn’t what Cheney meant. He brought his head up to meet his partner’s eyes. “Sting-“

           The blond took Cheney by the mouth, pushing into him with such eagerness. It was as if Sir Eucliffe had been waiting for this moment the entire time.

           Cheney pulled away from the kiss, “Sting-“

           But the lord came right back onto him.

           Cheney tried multiple times to break away, but was caught every time. “Sting-“ He felt his determination melt away as he was kissed once more, overcome by a powerful and sudden attraction to the lord. Sir Eucliffe kept on kissing him, even though Cheney was requesting his attention. All of a sudden, Cheney wanted nothing more than to do whatever it was the lord wanted.

           “Rogue,” he moaned as he gave a sloppy kiss to the side of Cheney’s mouth.

           The apprentice raised a hand to Sir Eucliffe’s back to hold him.

           “Rogue!” He moaned with more urgency. “Ah!”

           Cheney wanted him. He wanted to hug him. To kiss him.

           “Ro-“ He panted, open mouth smashed against Cheney’s. “Rogue..!”

           The apprentice watched as Sir Eucliffe’s brow came together, an expression of pain or childish frustration. The lord shattered in a heap of pants and sobs, mouth hanging and eyes squeezed shut. Cheney continued their kisses meanwhile. He kissed Sir Eucliffe’s cheeks. His jaw. His nose. His eyes. What was this? Why was Cheney experiencing this emotional rollercoaster? Was this normal? Did everyone go through this their first time? Granted, he’d been experiencing mixed emotions the very moment he first laid eyes on the lord. Maybe this was normal. Maybe not for the average couple, but for Cheney and Sir Eucliffe, this was very normal. One moment, the apprentice wanted to hurt the lord with perverted fantasies; and the next moment, he wanted to the cuddle and pamper the lord.

           Sir Eucliffe’s cock spit up their torsos, leaving the blond sighing his head down to Cheney’s shoulder. He gave another moan from there.

           Cheney turned to kiss his partner’s hair. How could anyone be this attractive? It wasn’t normal. Cheney had never loved anyone like this. Just hearing Sir Eucliffe’s voice mid-orgasm was enough to finish Cheney. He came soon after. Straight inside his partner. It was so sexy. He couldn’t take it. Where was this coming from?

           “Sting,” he panted.

           The lord kept moving up and down on Cheney, now in a slower motion. He put his arms round the apprentice once more, holding him with such a firm grip Cheney felt he’d been captured. Like this was his new home, in Sir Eucliffe’s embrace. Like it was the only option in the world to stay.

           “Sting.” He hugged the lord back, pressing the side of his face into his partner.

           After a minute of heavy breathing, the lord spoke up. “Now you’re going to leave.”

           Cheney slowly opened his eyes to look to the far wall. “Not right now.”

           “First thing in the morning. I won’t see you again.”

           Cheney panted.

           “Why did you tell me you love me?”

           “Because it’s true.”

           “Yeah, well now you’re going to leave me.”

           Cheney began a slow rubbing motion on his partner’s back. “I told you I have to finish my apprenticeship before we can be together.”

           “You chose _him_.”

           “No, I didn’t.”

           The lord dropped his arms, raising his head from Cheney’s shoulder. “Why are you still here? Why didn’t you leave earlier?”

           “I-“

           “Now we’re caught up together like this. This is stupid!” The lord got to his feet, shoving the apprentice backward.

           “Sting-“

           Sir Eucliffe headed for the door, but instead of leaving, he spun round and slammed his back on it. “I can’t believe you! You fucking asshole!”

           Cheney sat on his legs. “I’m sorry, I have to do this!”

           “We just had sex!” He shouted, “You used me!”

           “No-“

           “You took advantage of my feelings! And now you’re leaving..!”

           “No,” Cheney shouted back, “I told you I’d come back! Please just wait for me, Sting! I won’t abandon you!”

           “Asshole!”

           “I won’t! I promise, I won’t!”

           Sir Eucliffe cried, “Asshole!”

           “But, Sting, I’m here! I’m right here!”

           He shook his head.

           “Fine.” Cheney got to his feet as well. “Be a brat. I’ll leave tonight.”

           “I knew it…”

           “I’ll leave you, and I won’t come back until I’ve become a haberdasher.”

           “Don’t come back at all.”

           Cheney walked to the door. “You doubt my love for you, assume I used you for your body, brought me trouble with my master, had me go out of my way to please you... You take and take from me. And still, you don’t have enough. You need my life as well.”

           Sir Eucliffe came off the door and stood his ground as Cheney stepped in front of him.

           “Perhaps I’m a fool to love you. You never said anything about loving me; you just like our time together. How do I know devoting my life to you is right? I don’t know you. You’re right, Sting. I don’t know what love is. I shouldn’t come back to you. And isn’t that what you want?”

           “That it is!”

           “You’re right.” Cheney reached for the doorknob, “Maybe for once in your life, you’re right.”

           Sir Eucliffe threw his arm back and slammed the door shut as Cheney tried to open it. “ _Once in my life_. You’re just like Redfox. Messing with people’s minds. Maybe you were using me the whole time. From the day we met-”

           “That was your fault!” Cheney shoved the lord against the door. “I never needed someone like you in my life! I was going to be a haberdasher! I was going to own my own shop with my own apprentice! You came in and changed everything!”

           “I didn’t choose you specifically-“

           “Yes you did! There are lots of other haberdasheries in the-“

           “This isn’t my fault!” He shoved Cheney back.

           “Why did you choose Sir Dragneel’s shop? Because you hate him so much? How did you know he was working there?”

           “It was less populated, okay? It wasn’t to ruin your lives, or get back at that haberdasher or anything! You think life is that simple? You think things just happen because they’re meant to? That everything works like clockwork? We’re all part of God’s plan?”

           “Shut up!” Cheney rammed his body into the lord, forcing Sir Eucliffe against the door again. “I know you care about me! I know you enough to know that much! You have a strange way of telling me so, but I’m guessing that’s just because you’ve been traumatised-“

           “Don’t talk about me like you know me, because you don’t!”

          “Yes I do!” Cheney cried as he shoved the lord again, “Yes I do!”

           “Ow…”

           Cheney froze at the sound. He quickly backed away from his friend, afraid he’d gone too far.

           Sir Eucliffe looked at the floor, his lips twitching, as if fighting them to stay quiet.

           Now Cheney was feeling guilty. Just a moment ago he wanted to rip the lord to shreds. Even before that, he wanted to hold and cuddle and kiss him. This ocean of feelings, in which each wave was a completely different emotion, was tiresome. -And quite unnecessary. Was all this nonsense really worth getting to know Sir Eucliffe?

           Tears rolled off the lord’s face as he sniffed and trembled.

           Cheney watched his friend in silence.

           Cheney did this to him.

           This was Cheney’s fault.

           Sir Eucliffe murmured, “Just be mine…”

           After a while of silence, the lord said louder,

           “Be mine.”

           Cheney was at a loss for better words, but he could only think of one response: “I am.”

           Sir Eucliffe lifted his head and roared, “No you’re not!”

           “Yes,” the apprentice roared back, “I am!”

           “Then stay with me!”

           “I plan to!”

           Sir Eucliffe lowered his eyes again, naked against the only way out. His legs stood shaking ever so slightly, shoulders low, chin turned down with his blond hair spilling over his brow.

           Cheney felt bad for having put the lord in this position, but he couldn’t deny Sir Eucliffe looked very beautiful in this position.

           The lord asked, “You’ll come back?”

           “Yes. I promise.”

           He crossed the room for his clothes, keeping his eyes low.

           Cheney thought this a prime opportunity to lift the lord’s spirits. He got to his feet and crept up behind the blond. As Sir Eucliffe bent over to pick up his garments, Cheney came to a stop straight behind him. He waited for the lord to come back up, and then threw his arms round the blond.

           Much to Cheney’s surprise, his partner instead began to cry.

           The apprentice spun his friend round to meet Sir Eucliffe’s face. “Sting.”

           He only sobbed, avoiding eye contact.

           Cheney kissed the lord’s forehead.

           This only made him cry louder.

           “Sting,” he kissed the lord’s cheek, then his eye, then his nose… Cheney smothered his friend in soft pecks, thinking somehow this would help.

           Sir Eucliffe lowered his arms slowly and let go of his things. As he brought his arms back up, he wrapped them round Cheney, leaning in to his friend.

           “Sting.” He kissed the lord’s neck and rested his head on Sir Eucliffe’s shoulder. The blond rested his head as well, the bridge of his nose digging into Cheney’s shoulder.

 

           The next morning, Cheney awoke to a bright light. He’d never experienced such a thing. Back in his farmhouse, the tiny windows were always blocked; and Sir Dragneel’s workshop didn’t have windows. He sat up on the bed Sir Eucliffe offered him, a stream of light flooding in sideways from the large window. The covers were heavy on top of him, and the mattress was firm. It held his weight very well, and kept its form. Nothing like hay at all. He was quite warm last night in Sir Eucliffe’s bed. Like he’d been wrapped in a bundle and put in a drawer. Like a sack of potatoes. Getting to sleep was a bit awkward, as he wasn’t too comfortable sleeping like a vegetable. The change of environment was nice anyway.

           Sir Eucliffe slept in his own bed so he wouldn’t hear Cheney leaving. It would’ve been nice if they could’ve slept together, but it was better they didn’t. Not yet. Cheney still had a licence to earn. Once he was a haberdasher, they could sleep together all they wanted.

 

           Cheney stood at the haberdashery door, Sir Dragneel and his assistant standing before him. He was in so much trouble. Or he should’ve been, but they just unwound in a heap of relief.

           “Where were you all night?” Sir Dragneel asked.

           “I went back to my old village.”

           Sir Happy asked, “Did you relieve yourself?”

           Cheney paused for a moment. “What?”

           “Of your breakdown?” Sir Happy clarified.

           “Oh,” the apprentice said, “Yeah. I’m feeling better now. I just had to vent.”

           Sir Dragneel pulled him into the shop. “You’re alright now, aren’t you?”

           “Yes.” Cheney couldn’t tell if this was really happening. Why were they acting so nice? “I’ll get back to work straight away, Sir. I’m sorry for the trouble.”

           “No trouble.” Sir Dragneel waved him off to head into the workshop.

           At his desk, Cheney sat in bewilderment. Maybe he didn’t know Sir Happy or Sir Dragneel as well as he’d thought. Or maybe they knew he’d be back, or at least be safe on his own. What about Sir Eucliffe? Wasn’t Sir Dragneel concerned that Cheney might sneak out to see the lord? Maybe not.

           Sir Happy looked up at him from beside the stool.

           Cheney turned to the assistant.

           “Are you ready to talk now?”

           The apprentice asked after a moment, “About what?”

           “You know. About the panic attack you had in the middle of the night. You said something about not being able to trust your friend. And we had to wake you up. Was it just a bad dream?”

           The lie he told to keep them from spotting Sir Eucliffe out the back door? “Oh, yes, that was just a bad dream. I’ve been having that one for a while.”

           “It’s reoccurring?”

           “Yes, but it’s fine. It doesn’t interfere with my work at all.”

           Sir Happy wore a frown. “You went back to revisit it, didn’t you?”

           Cheney stared down at him.

           “To relive it one more time so you could let it go.”

           “Yes.” He lied again, “I wasn’t going to tell anyone. It was just a trip to set my mind straight. I won’t do it again.”

           “That’s okay. If it makes you feel better, you should do it.”

           Cheney didn’t know how to respond, so he simply nodded.

           “If you feel like talking about it, I’m always right here.”

           “Thank you. You and Sir Dragneel are very kind to me.”

           Sir Happy smiled and walked to his own desk.

           Cheney stared at the ceiling in agony. He only dug himself deeper into this pit. How would he ever get out if he kept telling these lies?

           Bishop Redfox would be here by the end of the week. Then Cheney could have all of his questions answered. And then he’d be enlightened. He’d finish his apprenticeship and start his own trade. He’d move in with Sir Eucliffe.

           Yes, his future never looked brighter.

 

 

           Thursday morning, Cheney swept the shop floor as Sir Dragneel set up. It was getting to be quite the dusty place, but it never seemed to bother the haberdasher or his assistant. So, Rogue was always the one polishing, and shining, and dusting. He supposed it was part of his apprenticeship, to tend to the shop. He wondered if Sir Eucliffe had someone to dust his mansion. Maybe Cheney could do it. He imagined having to take care of Sir Eucliffe’s house for him. Surely, Sir Eucliffe had experience cleaning houses; he wasn’t born a lord. Maybe he didn’t care about dust. Maybe Sir Eucliffe was just like the haberdasher.

           Cheney hoped not. He wanted his future lover to be at least a bit tidier than Sir Dragneel.

           He rounded up all the rubbish with his broom and swept it out the front door, sending a cloud of grey into the square.

           The haberdasher came over. “So, did you go adventuring?”

           “Uh,” Cheney tried to remember what he’d told the assistant. “No, I just went back to my old village. I’ve been feeling down lately. I won’t do it again.”

           “That’s all right. I get homesick too.”

           He looked at the buildings across the square, leaning away from the haberdasher. This was so uncomfortable. He shouldn’t lie like this. He should tell Sir Dragneel the truth. But the haberdasher would never understand. He still needed to figure out where the animosity between Sir Dragneel and Sir Eucliffe came from. Was the haberdasher from Sir Eucliffe’s village? Did Sir Dragneel know about tempters?

           Cheney asked, “Sir, where do you come from?”

           “I lived in the forest. Me and happy used to go fishing out there.”

           “Have you ever seen the hill village? Where the sun rises?”

           “Nah,” Sir Dragneel smiled. “I’d rather be where my friends are.”

           Cheney remembered Sir Happy talking about the tailor’s wife, and how she and Sir Dragneel used to be friends. Had she come from the forest too? Or perhaps she’d always lived in town. Either way, she and the haberdasher both had shops in the same square. Cheney supposed it was true, the haberdasher was where his friends are. So how did he know about Sir Eucliffe?

           Cheney said, “I’ve only heard stories about the hill village. Some day, I’d like to see the sunrise. In my valley village, there was a friar named Brother Redfox. He was like family to me. But he left to share his teachings with others.”

           “I’m sure he’ll be back.”

           Sir Happy ran into the room. “Are you guys talking about Redfox?”

           “Yeah,” the haberdasher turned round.

           “Isn’t he coming as a guest speaker this Sunday?”

           “What?” Sir Dragneel looked at Cheney with wide eyes. “He’s coming! You can see Redfox again!”

           As a side note, the assistant said, “Oh, Sir Natsu fell asleep again…”

           Cheney tried a smile, twitching with how uncomfortable he was.

           The haberdasher shouted, “That’s great!”

           What was Cheney talking about? Oh right, the animosity…

           Cheney asked, “Do either of you know Bishop Redfox?”

           “No!” Sir Dragneel crossed his arms and leaned onward. “What was he like?”

           Sir Happy joined their huddle. “Was it cool to know a person of the church?”

           The apprentice didn’t want to be there anymore. These were not the answers he was expecting. So, how did Sir Dragneel come to know about Sir Eucliffe? Why did they hate each other so much? He doubted he would get a clearer answer from the lord. Maybe he would never know.

           “It was like knowing anyone else.” He said, and hurried from the scene.

           Back in the workshop, Cheney still wondered why Sir Dragneel hated the lord so much. If only he knew, maybe he could tell the haberdasher the truth: That Cheney was out with Sir Eucliffe, kissing him and touching him and…

           No! Of course he couldn’t tell Sir Dragneel! The haberdasher was a Catholic man! He was against homosexual relations! He would hate Sir Eucliffe even more if he knew what the lord and Cheney were doing!

           Cheney just couldn’t tell him. This wasn’t a matter of trust; it was life and death. If Cheney cared at all about Sir Eucliffe, he would keep their relationship a secret.

 

           The workshop door stood across from him. Cheney lied in bed, arm under his head as he watched the door. He wanted to see Sir Eucliffe. He wanted the lord to come see him again. But he knew that would only bring them trouble. Cheney knew he couldn’t see Sir Eucliffe again until his apprenticeship was complete. That was the deal. That was the plan. But… he really wanted to see Sir Eucliffe.

 

 

           Friday, Cheney went to ask the haberdasher a question. “Sir, if I may. When do you think I’ll become a haberdasher myself?”

           Sir Dragneel looked over his shoulder, arranging heads on a shelf. “Hmm… It took me no time at all to become a haberdasher. I’m sure you’ll do great.”

           Cheney flattened his eye at that answer. He tried to be more precise. “Sir, if you were to make a schedule for me, how many days until I became my own haberdasher?”

           “Hmm…” He gave this answer more thought. “You know how to make hats. You know how to clean. You know how to arrange hats. You know how to set up to bring customers in.” He paused. “I know! The only thing you don’t know how to do is be a manager!”

           Cheney raised his brow in anticipation.

           “From now on, you’re the haberdasher. That way, you’ll get experience for your own shop, and I’ll know you can successfully go on with your own trade.”

           “Really?”

           “Yeah!” Sir Dragneel turned round and put his hands on his hips. “What do you want to do first, Sir?”

           Cheney blushed. The haberdasher was calling him _sir_. Honestly, he didn’t know the first thing about ordering people around. What should he have Sir Dragneel do? He thought about his next move for a minute. Wait… He ordered Sting around. He ordered Sting around like it was nothing. Why should telling Sir Dragneel what to do be any different?

           Cheney said, “Um… Well, let’s open the workshop door for fresh air.”

           The haberdasher nodded and ran off to the back room. “Aye, Sir!”

           That wasn’t so bad. At least Sir Dragneel was supportive. Maybe it was more difficult to boss Sir Dragneel around because he was actually Cheney’s boss, whereas Sting was just some guy. Of course it was easier to tell Sting what to do.

 

 

           Saturday, Cheney opened the shop, as Sir Dragneel and Sir Happy swept the floor and dusted the shelves. A couple of customers came in later in the day. One of them wanted some thick strings for a tunic, and the other wanted a set of buttons for their leather coat. Cheney helped them the way he’d seen Sir Dragneel help other customers. It didn’t feel any different from being an apprentice. Maybe because this wasn’t his shop or his set up. This was still Sir Dragneel’s territory. Cheney probably wouldn’t feel like an actual haberdasher until he really was an actual haberdasher.

           Sir Dragneel thought Cheney was doing great. So did Sir Happy. How many more days until Cheney could get his own shop? Then he could go get Sting, and they could start a life together. That could be fun. He didn’t really know Sting, but the lord seemed trustworthy enough. His only problem was being aggressive and needing revenge. Maybe Cheney could change him. He could teach Sting to let go, and move on from his trauma. Or something. Sting needed to calm down. He was a very angry person. Quite unstable, really. Cheney wondered if Sting was even safe to be around. Was Cheney being rash? Would moving in with Sting be smart?

 

 

           Sunday, Cheney led his new workers to the cathedral, through the streets with the decreasing amount of townsfolk. There were certainly less people attending worship today then last week. That disease was on a riot. It didn’t want any survivors. Was it safe to be outside anymore? Was anything safe?

           Cheney wondered if they should skip worship. Being surrounded by people was not going to protect them from this disease. What if one of them caught it? What if one of them was to die?

           But this was worship! They couldn’t just skip. Especially because Brother- Bishop Redfox was going to be there! Cheney had so many things he wanted to ask. How would he speak to the Bishop? Would he be so popular, Cheney wouldn’t get the chance? Maybe Cheney could sneak around and find him before he started talking? Maybe he could find Bishop Redfox preparing for his speech. Where would that be?

           Everyone funnelled into the cathedral and found their seats. While people were still up and about, talking to one another and trying to find their groups with which they entered, Cheney snuck off.

           He hurried around the outer statues, passing the grand golden paintings on the boards positioned behind them, and the stained glass rising high on the cold stone wall behind those. He ran over the coloured shapes on the floor, projected by the sun as it shone through the stained glass windows. Where was the Bishop? Where would he be? Back when Bishop Redfox worked in Cheney’s village, he could be found in the back room. Where was the back room to this cathedral? This building was much larger than the church back home. There were probably tons of back rooms.

           As the head priest walked to the front of the crowd, Cheney saw Bishop Redfox standing near the podium. It was too late. Bishop Redfox was already in front of the cathedral audience. Maybe Cheney should just sit back down and wait. Bishop Redfox would answer questions later, he always did. Anything anyone wished to know. And these conversations were one on one as well. It wouldn’t be so bad. Bishop Redfox always designated a time after worship for people to speak with him, why did Cheney think this would be any different? Even with His Excellency’s new rank, Bishop Redfox was still the same man. Surely.

           Cheney went back to his seat to wait like everyone else. Really, why was he so rushed? Was he anxious? Cheney could wait until after worship. He sat beside Sir Dragneel once again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having so much trouble ending this darn chapter!  
> Please enjoy a bunch of unfinished stories I guess.
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment with other AU's you'd like to read of Stingue!


	2. Victorian England

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept the dialogue true to the era his time!  
> I didn’t know very much about this era, so I had to do some research. It was a lot of fun tho.  
> Enjoy, my dudes!

            Across the grand carpet of the foyer, Mr Eucliffe treaded back and forth. He'd already done all of his favourite things to do: read a few more chapters of his current novel, walk the hills of his estate, and serenade his lovely wife. He'd already entertained many of his most respectable friends: They'd enjoyed tea together and had discussed poetry and politics, they'd listened to each other play piano, and caught one another up on the latest gossip and fashion. There was nothing more to do, but the sun was still up. What would he do with himself? What would he do the day to follow? And the day following that?

            Indeed, it seemed Mr Eucliffe had lost his sense of spontaneity. He'd always been known to be the embodiment of satisfaction, someone who always knew how to spend one's time, who thought of new and exciting undertakings. It seemed almost as though Mr Eucliffe had lost his gift.

            He stopped at the wall, lost in a state of slight horror.

            If he was to regain his old way of living, he was going to need a bit of inspiration. Could he journey his estate? Of course not, he'd memorised every blade of grass his back gardens had to offer…

            His lovely wife came into the entry. "Sting, darling."

            "Yukino," he turned round to greet her. "How are you this evening?"

            "Oh, I'm quite well, thank you. Did you enjoy seeing everyone again?"

            "Very much. I always do."

            Yukino kept her hands nears her stomach, playing with her fingers as a charming aspect of her character. "How shall you occupy the rest of your day?"

            "Well, if I'm heading for London tomorrow, I should think I shall retire."

            "Oh, yes, of course." She gave a flushed smile. "I must have forgotten. When shall you be back?"

            "I should think my business shouldn't take longer than a day, my dear. I'll return by tomorrow night."

            "How early does your train leave?"

            "Do not fret, my Yukino, I shall wake you if you're still asleep by my departure."

            "And why have you refused to bring Lector along?"

            "It's not that I refuse to bring him, rather I refuse to leave you unaccompanied. What would you do with yourself all alone? I struggle to entertain myself with two other people living in this house."

            "Oh," she teased, "You and I are very different, aren't we?"

            Mr Eucliffe made a wide smile, rubbing their noses together as their giggles filled the foyer.

           

 

            "Master, Sting!" The little exceed ran down the stairs after him, "Were you going to leave without saying goodbye to me?"

            The man turned round with one arm in his jacket, a valet helping him. "I've said goodbye to you, you were sleeping."

            "I can't hear you if I'm sleeping! Have you said goodbye to Yukino while she was sleeping?"

            "No, she's awake. I made sure of that."

            "Well, goodbye, Master Sting. I wish you a safe travel."

            "Thank you, Lector. Take care of Yukino while I'm gone. I shall be thinking of you both."

            "Goodbye." Lector waved as his friend went out the door.

 

            Mr Eucliffe sat on the train, bound to his business call in London. Once they'd finished he'd return home to his steadily-becoming-less-exciting life. It all sounded rather dull, and he compared the idea to a dead-end road. It wasn't so much that Mr Eucliffe longed to continue to entertain his circles, rather he wished to surprise himself with just how much he could be capable of. In other words, he wanted to prove to himself that he was still a rambunctious young man.

            Upon arriving in London, Mr Eucliffe rented an umbrella for the light downpour, continuing on his way to the rendezvous point with his peers. They met up in a small restaurant near the outskirts of town, gathering round the table in a familiar portion of the city.

            They chatted and debated their plans for the company, quite fond of what Mr Eucliffe had to say, as usual. They ate a bit and drank a bit until the meeting was settled, at which time everyone said their farewells and went their separate ways. Though, Mr Rufus Lore, a close friend of Mr Eucliffe, had made a habit of keeping him from leaving.

            "Tell me, you must be spending the day in town. Share with me your ideas, and don't decline a good friend's invitation." Mr Lore smirked, "Even if it were the host's to give yet his good friend insisted upon it himself."

            Mr Eucliffe led them outside. "As it were, I am feeling rather poorly. Perhaps you're company would cheer me up."

            "Oh no, my good Sting. What ever could be troubling you?"

            "As it would turn out, I've lost interest in my day to day routine."

            "Impossible!" Mr Lore cried, "It is foreign to me to learn of such a crime. How should the great Sting Eucliffe fall before the feet of boredom?"

            "The feeling is mutual."

            His friend opened an umbrella with him and they strolled together through the streets. "Well, brush your knowledge of old conducts and we'll gather new information. Where should you prefer to visit?"

            "I can't think of anywhere I've not been before."

            "Perhaps you'd like to travel out of country? See the world with Yukino and Lector. If I recall correctly, they've always loved to accompany you on little outings."

            "Perhaps you're right."

            Mr Lore stopped before a shop window, his back turned to a poster of some sort. While he continued to blabber on, Mr Eucliffe kept glancing over his friend's shoulder to read it. He could make out that it was advertising a newspaper. The headline read "Victim Claimed By East End." How exciting, to be this close to an actual victim case. Though victim to what, suicide, murder, kidnapping, rape? And where was this East End to London? He wanted to travel there and see what kind of place it was.

            "That's what I would do," finished Mr Lore.

            "Of course!" He said, and smiled as if he'd been listening. "I can always rely on my good friend, Rufus."

            "Will you be staying in town, then?"

            "Oh, no. I must return to my dear Yukino. I promised I would see her by tonight at the latest."

            "Back on the train so soon? Not to mention nightfall is quite a long time from now. Why, it's only half noon."

            Mr Eucliffe laughed, "Time is no concern of mine! I long for my wife! So let the hour be young, I'll endure another train before nightfall to see her."

            "You are a chivalrous man, my good friend. I'll remember that."

            "Where will you be heading?"

            "Oh, I'm on my way north. I've missed my aunt's face for too long. This makes it the third year I've gone without seeing her."

            Mr Eucliffe patted his friend's shoulder. "So, we're off on noble quests to see dear and lonely women."

            "Indeed. It's too bad we couldn't have spent more time together." He put his hand on Mr Eucliffe's shoulder. "We shall meet again very soon. I enjoy our visits."

            "Yes," Mr Eucliffe tightened his grip on his friend's jacket. "Our departure is all too sad. I shall miss you, Rufus."

            "I shall miss you, my friend. Take care of yourself, and do tend to that problem of yours."

            They went off in different directions, Mr Lore to a coach that would take him to his hotel a city over, and Mr Eucliffe to the east end of London.

            The city was an experience in itself, the smell of horses, the cramped buildings, the amount of people... But the farther east he drew, the more exciting it became. The people dressed with less care, the buildings all turned to factories or living quarters of sorts, the streets were cluttered with rubbish like laundry, barrels, or brooms...

            He thought of ways he could incorporate these things into a new mentality, or new way of living: The children walking around without shoes, for instance. Mr Eucliffe could start a new session of walking round the house barefoot, or in the garden for that matter. He could invite his guests to do it as well, and they could all laugh at his newfound spontaneity. Or take the street signs advertising rooms: Mr Eucliffe could take up the art form of calligraphy, and create his own invitations for house parties. He could take it a step further and start to paint. Maybe portraits of Yukino and Lector. If nothing else, this would serve as holiday from his everyday routine.

            Off to the side there looked to be a steady stream going in and out of an alley. Every so often another person would come out of it, and it was so tempting. The arch at the top of it looked inviting enough, how it loomed over the cobblestone, holding the neighbouring buildings apart like the inside of a cathedral.

            Mr Eucliffe pushed through the crowd and walked straight under the arch, welcoming himself to a narrow strip of a road. One of the doors along the way was left open, and people were walking inside like it was a public space. Maybe it would be okay if Mr Eucliffe popped in.

            He stepped up and into the building, landing his shoe on a slick floor, covered in small bits of gravel. The place was fairly dark, but with the light coming in behind him he could see the floor had been stained a grey colour over time from all the smashed pebbles. What fun. Why were there rocks on the floor? Maybe he could throw some pebbles in his own house and create an inside rock garden for his collection of exotic plants.

            A blonde woman hurried over and exposed her shoulders. "Why, hello there. Would you like to follow me?"

            Mr Eucliffe knew that very moment where he'd ended up.

            "Left you without words, have I? I do apologise. Shall I do all the talking?"

            "What might your name be?"

            "You may call me Lucy. What might your name be, beautiful?"

            The next minute, another stranger ran up to him: A man, no less, with black hair. "Come with me. I'll show you a midnight in paradise."

            Lucy hugged one of Mr Eucliffe's arms. "I foresee our stars colliding."

            The man grabbed Mr Eucliffe's other arm. "Disappear into the darkness with me."

            "I beg your pardon," said Mr Eucliffe. "I should think both of you are extraordinary. Would it be out of the question to disappear into the stars?"

            The two scowled at one another.

            At the same time, another man neared their group. He was larger, lighter haired man with a peculiar scar running down one eye. "Welcome, sir. Having a bit of trouble, are we?"

            Mr Eucliffe began to speak but Lucy cut him off: "I saw him first, he belongs to me."

            The black haired man argued, "He already said he wants the both of us."

            The larger man interrupted. "Have you decided on both, sir?"

            With that, both prostitutes stared at him longingly. How could he be so cruel at that point as to refuse? Or rather, how could he be so cruel as to walk out on such an opportunity to turn his life around?

            Mr Eucliffe stated, "I have indeed decided on both of these lovely varieties."

            The larger man gave him a number and Mr Eucliffe paid up front for the room, and for a container of oil for some reason. He wondered the reason he was so popular was due to the fact that he was the only one around there with money to spend. The two prostitutes took him to a back room, or closet rather, and invited him to sit on the bed, or carpet rather.

            Lucy turned her back to her client and asked if he could get her out of her dress, meanwhile the dark haired man stripped himself.

            Mr Eucliffe put the container down, and did his best to untie the woman's corset. He looked towards the man, "What is your name, sir?"

            "I'm Rogue. What would you like us to call you?"

            "I never thought I would be put to work like this. Removing a woman's dress, choosing a new name for myself."

            Lucy offered a bit of support. "A new name isn't necessary. We could address you as a title, or a set of adjectives, or you're birth name..."

            "My name is Sting, if you'd like to call me that."

            "Sting," Rogue moved onto the carpet, bringing his lips closer to the man's cheek. He spoke slowly, breathing onto Mr Eucliffe's skin. "What a strong, handsome name."

            Lucy peeked over her shoulder. "Would you prefer I let my hair down or keep it up?"

            "However you'd feel most comfortable."

            She blushed and looked straight ahead. "W-whatever you'd like."

            Rogue kissed Mr Eucliffe's cheek, helping him remove his jacket. Mr Eucliffe finally had the woman's dress unfastened, and he went on to aide her in pulling it over her head. Lucy ducked out of it and instructed that he just drop it somewhere, surprised at how considerate he was that he kept holding it long after she'd gotten out of it. The woman threw her shoes off and asked if Mr Eucliffe could then help her remove her stockings.

            By the time Mr Eucliffe removed all of Lucy's clothes, he was also naked, compliments of Rogue. The man kissed Mr Eucliffe's shoulder all the way to the back of his neck, until he was situated behind him, groping Mr Eucliffe's chest.

            Lucy wore an embarrassed smile as she took Mr Eucliffe's hands. "Would you prefer that I face you or away from you?"

            "Which one do you recommend?"

            "Well, other clients want me facing away from them."

            "Then I should like you facing away from me."

            Her expression dropped to a level of disappointment, and she positioned herself turned away once again, guiding Mr Eucliffe's hands to hold her waist.

            Rogue made a slight chuckle behind him. He then took the container of oil from the floor and unfastened it.

            There must've been some sort of rivalry between the two. Mr Eucliffe thought of ways he might use this experience to spice up his life.

            Rogue had him get on his knees for better access, and before Mr Eucliffe could put too much thought into the matter, Rogue inserted a couple fingers.

            The aristocrat jumped, brushing the head of his dick between Lucy's thighs.

            "Dear me," he held Lucy for support as Rogue kept digging deeper.

            The woman added, "Vaginal insertion will cost you more."

            Mr Eucliffe kept a shallow breath until Rogue began moving in and out of him, at which time the aristocrat grew comfortable to the feeling, or as comfortable as one could with a man's hand up their ass.

            Mr Eucliffe finally replied, "I shouldn't like to trouble you with all the aftermaths of that. If it's all the same to you, I should prefer the more simple anal insertion."

            Rogue chuckled again. "What is a simple anal insertion? Do you know of one?"

            "Not that anal insertion is simple, rather I wouldn't want to have Lucy bothered with childbearing."

            Rogue kissed his neck, "You're accent is gorgeous."

            "Thank you. Where are you two from that you would sound so different from me?"

            Lucy was quick to reply, "Uh, uh, we slum dwellers are denied proper education. That's why we talk so funny."

            Rogue made a noise of distaste.

            "I see. No reason to be ashamed. After all, where we're born is no choice of our own."

            Lucy giggled, though it sounded nervous.

            Was this how paupers behaved? Humiliated by their class? He supposed that was normal. Was rivalry common? Maybe they were fighting over his money. He supposed that was normal for poor people too. Mr Eucliffe knew it was all fresh material, and he wanted more. Whatever it took to get his life back.

            Rogue spread his fingers against the ring of the aristocrat's entrance. Mr Eucliffe tried not to grunt too much. Meanwhile, Lucy caught his attention and gestured for him to take the container of oil. He did so, and Lucy took one of the aristocrat's hands and directed him to put a few fingers in it. Mr Eucliffe did so and the woman then instructed him to put his wet fingers inside her.

            Mr Eucliffe did as he was told, though he thought three was much too bold. After all, this was his first time touching a woman in this way, and he didn't know Lucy at all. So he pushed one finger into the woman. She was exceptionally warm, and the sensation filled his chest with scratchy excitement. This was nothing like he'd experienced before. Never had he touched a naked woman. Never had it been such an unthinkable area of the body.

            Lucy sighed, and tipped her head, and made other implications that encouraged him to continue. He tried to move his finger to match Rogue's, assuming that was the proper way to touch someone.

            Rogue slipped a hand onto Mr Eucliffe's dick, earning a small gasp from the aristocrat. He ran his fingers over it and whispered into Mr Eucliffe's hair. "You're very well kept, Sting."

            "Thank you."

            "Is this you're first time in the slum?"

            "Oh, yes." He tried to ignore how ill he felt. "As a matter of fact, I'm looking to gather some inspiration for my new lifestyle."

            "Are you running low on money?"

            "Oh, gracious, no. I've simply grown bored of my everyday routine. I'd actually hoped that by journeying to the east end of London, I would be exposed to new forms of etiquettes."

            "Did you plan on spending a lot of money down here?"

            "Well, at first I wasn't expecting to spend any at all. But I found myself intrigued by your brothel, and now here I am spending it."

            "How much have you got on you?"

            "Rogue, our relation is becoming more familiar by the minute. I've only just met you."

            Lucy changed topics. "How did you come to hear of the east end?"

            "Oh, I happened upon a newspaper posting by the train station. That reminds me, the headline mentioned there'd been a victim claimed round here. What can you tell me about that?"

            Rogue said, "Someone's got themself murdered."

            "A murder, you say? Was this close by?"

            "The east end is one big district. There's no distinction, everything that happens here just does. Whether the murder occurred just outside or on the border of the slum, it's all the east end."

            "I don't quite think I understand. Do you mean to tell me the east end of London is an abyss of some sort? In which every nook and cranny is characterised by a single name?"

            "That's exactly how it is."

            Lucy changed topics again. "Tell us more about you, Sting. I'm sure you're quite the interesting man."

            "Oh yes. I have many respectable friends who think so."

            "Tell us about you, Sting."

            "Of course," He then went on talking about how much he loved entertaining, and reading, and playing piano, and taking walks through the garden... For the most part, he was only trying to calm himself down. But he always liked to boast about his domestic life.

            After some additional stretching exercises with his fingers, Rogue removed his hand and positioned himself right up against Mr Eucliffe. "Lucy, he's ready."

            The aristocrat's throat caught for a moment, and he waited for whatever was to happen next. Rogue had messaged his dick to a stiffer form, which was embarrassing. In the first place, he was getting hard about a man; and it was unsightly for an aristocrat to be so shameless about his pleasure.

            "Sting," called Lucy in a breathless fashion. "Would you bring me your penis?"

            Mr Eucliffe was stuck: Should he remove his finger to present her with what she'd requested? Or bring it to her with his other hand? Or maybe lean forward as Rogue had? He pushed his hips onward and Lucy took hold of his dick. She told him to replace his finger with it, and so the aristocrat did so.

            As he sank into the woman, he thought of his lovely wife, and how she was miles away expecting him back home by nightfall. Lucy pushed back against him until she was right up against his balls.

            Rogue took him by the waist and forced himself inside the aristocrat. Mr Eucliffe gasped and felt his lower stomach tense.

            "Relax, Sting."

            Mr Eucliffe trembled against the two prostitutes, finding he'd trapped himself between them.

            "Breathe with me." Rogue exhaled onto the aristocrat's collar, inviting him to take up the same steady pace.

            Mr Eucliffe copied Rogue's breath to the best of his ability.

            Knowing how uncomfortable the aristocrat must've felt, the prostitutes began showering him with compliments and praise. Rogue rubbed his face against the man's jaw and stroked Mr Eucliffe's head. Lucy smiled at the man over her shoulder and reached back to hold his hand.

            Why was he so afraid? Was he afraid? Maybe he was just nervous. He ought to be; this was his first time in a sketchy neighbourhood, and inside a brothel, and getting intimate with two strangers at a time.

            He liked the attention though he had to admit.

            Rogue asked, "Don't you want us?"

            "Of course, I should feel honoured that you've presented me with such an unusual endeavour."

            "You trust us, don't you?"

            "Very much so."

            Rogue's voice was slow, a terrible appeal about it. "We're here to help you."

            The aristocrat had his eyes locked on Lucy's. She had big dark eyes. Eyes like he'd never seen. Nothing like his lovely wife's or Lectors. There was a pauper's touch to Lucy's eyes. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he thought it might have something to do with the lack of _guarantee_ that came with being poor. Like whether one would eat, or whether one would remain safe over night.

            Rogue pushed in and out of him with less resistance then, moving like his fingers. The effort pressed Mr Eucliffe into Lucy's backend, starting a rhythm for him. The aristocrat went along with his body and pushed in and out of Lucy, copying Rogue.

            The feeling was strange, having your dick in someone's ass and someone else's dick in yours. Why did Mr Eucliffe agree to this? He must've been too close to the situation to make an educated decision. He was too busy feeding off everyone's excitement. Now, he was in a closet, holding in any noises he might make.

            "L-Lucy, I wouldn't want your neck to catch. Do feel free to position yourself in a manner that is most comfortable."

            The woman flattened her brow and faced forward, while Rogue gave another chuckle. She wouldn't see his expressions at least.

            Rogue asked, "Have we told you everything you ever wanted to know about the east end?"

            "Er, yes. Thank you."

            "Anything for you, Sting. Whatever it is, we're right here."

            "Thank you. My, you two are quite hospitable."

            "You're rather special, aren't you, Sting? I've never heard such talk. Where do your manners come from?"

            "O-oh, my family is well respected. As an aristocrat, I hold a certain responsibility to keep an appearance of gentility."

            "You're too good to us, Sting."

            "Certainly not. I dare say, you two have very little regard for yourselves."

            Rogue moaned in his ear, which sent shivers to Mr Eucliffe's stomach. "You're a good boy, aren't you?"

            The aristocrat fell silent as Rogue exhaled into his hair. In all his shock, he stopped moving. At which time Lucy took over, and she pushed herself along Mr Eucliffe. Now he had no control: The prostitutes were having their way with him, and he became truly stuck in the middle. His pelvis hit one body after the other, caught in a tireless cage, like a loose marble rattling round in a box.

            Rogue shoved harder, forcing the aristocrat to lean over Lucy. Her soft backend cradled into his lower stomach. Lucy was hardly moving at that point, she simply propped her arms out to keep her ass against the aristocrat, Rogue was the one moving the group and feeding her more of Mr Eucliffe.

            The middlemost man let out a quite cry before snapping his mouth shut. "Dear me! I do apologise."

            Rogue hummed into his neck. "Free your voice, Sting. Tell us what it is you want."

            The aristocrat’s knees shook under the weight. "I-I'm not sure what to do with myself!"

            Rogue moaned between kisses, "Is this pleasurable?"

            "Q-quite, I'm afraid!"

            "Don't be ashamed. You've been deprived haven't you?"

            "R-Rogue!" Something inside him was growing very sensitive. "What is this?"

            "What is what?"

            "Something ins- I-I feel-"

            Rogue shoved harder and took deep breaths of Mr Eucliffe's skin.

            It was hard to breathe. The closet air became damp. Mr Eucliffe's knees trembled beneath him as he unwillingly drove, again and again, into Lucy. He held onto the woman, staring down at what he could see of her back. He felt like he might've been upside down, and it didn't help that he was already feeling vulnerable.

            Lucy asked, "This isn't your first time, is it, Sting?"

            "N-not quite!" He couldn't contain his breath anymore, and panted down the woman's spine.

            "Sting," she giggled.

            It was nothing like his lovely wife's giggle. He missed her in that moment. He wondered why he ever agreed to this. He wondered why he'd let himself get so carried away. Well, actually, this was the perfect opportunity to collect inspiration. He instantly began thinking of ways to incorporate this being beat back and forth into a new routine. Maybe he could... Well, he couldn't think of anything.

            Rogue rubbed his sweaty face all over Mr Eucliffe's shoulders. He wrapped his arms round the aristocrat and let his fingertips tickle the man's ribs.

            Lucy arched her back with how heated it became, sighing little comfortable noises. She hung her head for a while, exposing some loose hairs at the bottom of her hairdo. Mr Eucliffe knew he'd been stationed at the woman's backend for the exact reason that he could discharge inside her, but at that point, he didn't exactly want to discharge at all. It was vulgar, especially in front of strangers, and in front of two at the same time.

            But the two were performing this just for him, and it would be rude not to express how much he was enjoying it. If that's what this was.

            "Lucy," he pleaded, "I am sorry-"

            "I'm here for your pleasure, Sting." She said in a calm tone that, regardless of the derogatory message, strangely made him feel a lot better.

            Rogue slowed his pace as he hummed into Mr Eucliffe's shoulder. Both that needy vibration and Rogue's more concentrated thrusts forced Mr Eucliffe over the edge, and there went his pride.

            The aristocrat called out in a pathetic cry before panting shamelessly for air. He tried not to lean too much on Lucy any more than he already was. It was embarrassing, that's all he could say.

            Rogue gave him a few more humps before pulling out, allowing him to remove himself from Lucy. The woman turned round and cupped his face.

            "You were excellent, Sting." Her eyes were half open from exhaustion.

            Rogue messaged the aristocrat's back, kissing him various places to get Mr Eucliffe to calm down.

            "M-my apologies. I've just-"

            Lucy shook her head and stroked his hair. "Don't be sorry, beautiful. It's poor flattery. Oh, you were so good to me."

            Mr Eucliffe blushed with all the praise once again. He thought he might shower his guests with similar flattery. Though, he would need to change the lines a bit.

            Rogue said, "You're skin is so delectable, Sting. What do you do to it?"

            "Oh, I take very good care of myself. I actually have imported oils and bathing assortments added to baths." He took a deep breath to further regain himself. "You two were marvellous. I thank you for your efforts and time."

            Lucy kissed round his jaw. "You're very welcome."

            It was much later, after the two had pampered Mr Eucliffe to the best of their abilities, when they talked money. As it turned out, they'd treated him with very expensive care. Possibly they were trying to get as much money out of him as they could. That didn't much matter to Mr Eucliffe; he had plenty of it, and the experience was memorable enough. They deserved every last pent.

 

            It was dark, and Mr Eucliffe was on a train back to his estate. He knew he should've been dreaming about his lovely wife and how she would be waiting up all night for him. Or perhaps about how he would make his lie exciting again using the material he'd experienced through the day. But he could only think of Lucy and Rogue. He thought about how the two treated him so well and with such intimacy. They'd never met him before, but they knew exactly where to touch, what to say, how to work a client. He supposed the two of them must've had plenty of practice.

            Even though he knew the way they acted was only to get more money out of him, and the only reason they knew what they knew was from past clients, and that the whole thing had no deeper significance, Mr Eucliffe fell in love with them.

 

 

            Seated at the low parlour table, Lector played another tricky card. It seemed the exceed had a whole bunch of those. Mr Eucliffe wondered if Lector was cheating somehow. After a few more hands the game was lost, and as Lector cheered, Mr Eucliffe calculated how all those convenient cards ended up in the exceed's hand.

            "You've cheated, Lector!"

            "Oh, no I haven't! I've beaten you fair and square!"

            "Fine, then. We'll play again."

            Yukino sat on the couch to finish her two-act play. "Are you sure you're not too tired from the train ride? You're welcome to sleep all today."

            "I'm fit as a fiddle. In any case, I should like to spend my leisurely time with my family."

            She asked, "How did the meeting go? Did Rufus attend?"

            "Oh yes, he did. He's doing well. The meeting was as bland as ever. Everyone wanted to know what I thought, of course."

            "Don't you think you should regard your meetings with greater sincerity?"

            "One would hope." After a moment, he turned his entire body toward Yukino. "Darling, I should like to tell you something."

            "Yes, what is it?"

            "Well, lately I've noticed my life follows a strict pattern without much room for spontaneity. As you know, I hold a reputation for such a mannerism. So, you can imagine how upset this has made me."

            She closed her book on her lap. "Oh, Sting, are you upset?"

            Lector cried, "Not you, Master Sting!"

            "Quite." He said.

            Yukino asked, "What do you propose to do?"

            "Naturally, I would seek inspiration. My last trip to London reminded me of my fortune. The city life is an entirely different breed to what I'm accustomed out here on the estate. Indeed, my trip has given me room to breathe. I felt an unfamiliar sense of freedom, though by the abnormal I was surrounded."

            Yukino stated, "Then you must return."

            "Oh, unthinkable. I should stay here with you and Lector."

            "Not if you are to be miserable." She creased her brow at him from across the way. "Sting, if it is inspiration you're after, you must retrieve it. This is your wellbeing you're addressing. It's highly irresponsible to deny your instincts."

            "But, darling-"

            "Sting, you really must take better care of yourself."

            Well, there was no going back now. His wife was set on letting him wander back to London. In truth, Mr Eucliffe was looking for any chance he could get to hurry back there. He was still on about Lucy and Rogue. Yes, his family was dear to him, but the sensation he felt when recalling his night in the brothel was overpowering. It was like he'd been cursed with a rage that could only be dowsed by the prostitutes. He would prepare to take the next train back to London.

 

 

            Rogue sat amongst the rest of his assembly line, crammed against the table by a wooden stool, a stack of small cuts of paper stretched along the entirety of the workers. He picked out a longer piece to match the square paper in his hand and fastened them together at the ends with some adhesive, which was shared amongst every three workers. Most times he was to wheel in another batch of paper, but now that there was plenty, he was to join in with the others.

            Rogue worked in a matchbox factory, where he and a suffocating amount of women (and some young boys) spent sixteen hours a day gluing matchboxes together. The place smelt of parchment and adhesive, which made him nauseous. Early in the morning when the factory opened, low hanging lamps lit the worktables, which gave off additional smells of gas. Time and again, the shadow of a fly would wriggle around the table. Rogue would try not to be distracted by it, as it would frustrate him. Eventually someone would swat it off or catch it, which Rogue was thankful for.

            Because he was only allowed to work after he'd replenished the stack on the table, he stuck to a position near the end. That was where he dumped new pieces onto the table for the workers to send down the line. Two women Rogue had come to know quite well occupied this spot, as that was their assigned position. Their names were Erza and Millianna. They took their work very seriously, and they always produced more than their share of boxes.

            Often times, Millianna would get them talking so much they would forget how tedious the process was to complete. Each of them in the factory were expected to make one thousand boxes before leaving, and Rogue knew he would've otherwise gone mad if it weren't for their company.

            Elfman, the manager, found it necessary to ridicule Rogue for being the oldest man in the assembly. "Matchmaking is women's work. You're not a boy anymore. It's time you learned how to make real money round here and found a job in machinery. Don't you want to improve this country?"

            Erza would then argue, "Rogue is an important member of this team. Woman or not, he's building one thousand boxes every day without complaint."

            Time and again, Millianna would chime in with some reinforcement. After a short while, the manager would leave them alone. But it wouldn't stop him from coming up with a new argument to bring back a day or two later.

            After work, it would be suppertime. Rogue went home with brittle fingers and a headache, not to mention his ass always hurt. But none of it mattered anymore once he'd returned home to Frosch. Knowing his dear friend was waiting for him at the door every night always made him feel better.

            The exceed pawed his legs. "How was Rogue's day?"

            He handed one of his roommates the three loaves of bread he'd bought after work. "It went fine. How are you?"

            "Fro is fine too."

            With the extra money he got from Sting, he was able to buy two more loaves than usual. That should be able to feed everyone two dinners and one breakfast.

            There were seven other people living in the room they all shared, each of them working to pay the rent and bring home their share of food. It was a steady bunch, this one. So they'd all gotten to know one another.

            Usually a person would start making more money and move to another floor, somewhere they could sleep in their own bed, or at least a more comfortable one. Or sometimes a person would grow tired of the constant struggle and move to a workhouse, where a person was guaranteed a bed, meals, work, and healthcare. From what Rogue heard from others who'd left, the only drawbacks were being separated from family, beatings and mockery were regular, and if you were treated like inmates rather than guests. It sounded awful. Rogue couldn't understand why anyone would prefer that to the way they were living before.

            The sun came through the only window of the room, which had a handkerchief stuffed in a hole in the glass: Someone had thrown a rock through it, and the handkerchief was to keep the cold out. Soon it would be summer, and they would need all the air they could get. This was their seasonally ritual: Plugging and unplugging the hole in the window.

            Rogue sat on the damp floor with Frosch, smiling back at his friend.

            "Fro found this string for Rogue."

            The exceed held out a long, thick string from one of the bed blankets. Rogue took it by the middle and they both watched the ends of it run off Frosch's paws. He then pinched both ends of it to admire how long it was.

            "Thank you, this is beautiful."

            "Fro wanted Rogue to break it in half. So Rogue could have one, and Fro could have the other."

            Rogue found the middle and pulled the string in two. After presenting Frosch with the results, the exceed went on:

            "Rogue will tie one string to a finger, and Fro will tie the other string to a finger."

            He handed his friend one of the strings and they both wrapped their piece round one of their fingers, much like a ring of sorts.

            "Fro wanted to wear a friendship ring with Rogue."

            He smiled down at his hand. "Frosch, this is the nicest gift anyone has given me."

            "Fro is happy."

            There was only one bed amongst the nine of them, so sleeping arrangements came down to who made most money, or who was providing most for everyone. These were the few who kept them out of debt so they all could continue to live with a roof over their heads, or the few who brought food for everyone so they could sleep without going hungry. The rest of them were making so little, they could hardly afford anything. These people put money towards the rent just to feel helpful.

            Rogue was one of the lucky people who earned a spot on the bed, which fit four people comfortably, five if they really wanted. Frosch slept right up next to him to save space, and because it was warmer. Minerva, whom he got along with most, was one of the less lucky people who slept against a wall or on a chair. As a side note, there was no room for guilt in the slum: Those who worked hard deserved their rewards, and those who couldn't find better jobs (or weren't very good at the ones they had) were reminded to work harder.

            Day by day, they worked to remain in their room. When times were tough, everyone put their money towards rent: For they would rather have a place to sleep than stay warm or eat. However, the warmer seasons were arriving, and they would soon have one less thing to worry about.

            Rogue left everyday for the factory in the dark, leaving Frosch with the others until they too would leave for work. The only one without an actual job was Minerva. She sat outside on the building's doorstep, offering to shine shoes. Frosch sat with her, drawing flowers in the mud-covered street. She agreed to watch Frosch until Rogue returned because he was afraid the factory would overwhelm the exceed too much. He would much rather Frosch was safe at home with Minerva.

            That was the schedule: Working, eating, sleeping. With how poor they were, every little bit helped. So Rogue sought additional work on the side as a prostitute, and it was convenient that his work got out while it was still light (in the spring and summer at least), because he could find more clients walking around.

            He attended the nearest meeting spot for needy workers like him, which happened to be Laxus's house. For a small living, Laxus rented rooms to whores and their clients. It wasn't a brothel because overnight rooms and meals weren't provided, but it was often referred to as one by those new to the business: Like Sting. The name brothel also gave it a more homely vibe, and made it seem as though the house was a safe and controlled environment. This worked to trick clients into offering more money as well, which wasn't a bad deal. That was of course, until a client requested to stay overnight. Well, because Laxus had to worry about being ratted out to police, he usually obliged to the client as long as they paid extra. But he never advertised the idea because it slowed traffic.

            Rogue stayed off the streets as often he could, lest someone in his living quarter group spotted him. He waited around the ground floor of Laxus's house until he could snatch a client walking in.

            Today was slow. Maybe two clients walked in every couple of hours, but they were quickly snatched by whores hanging around the alley outside. Rogue waited and waited. Sometimes, while the alley whores were busy with someone, a client would be able to step inside the house before being attacked.

            This just so happened to be the case. And it just so happened that the client walking through the door was the same aristocrat from a few weeks ago.

            Rogue could use that money. He hurried across the room without drawing too much attention to himself and latched onto the man.

            "I'll bet you missed being bent over. Isn't that right, my little shadow?"

            The aristocrat gave him a wide grin. "Well, hello there! I was so hoping I'd see you once more. Though, Lucy seems to be absent."

            "Oh, we don't need Lucy, do we? Wouldn't you rather spend time alone with me?"

            "I really have missed both of you. I should like to see Lucy again as well. My last experience here was truly wonderful. If I may, I'd like to request the two of you this round as well."

            "Lucy isn't here today. Allow me to double my effort for you."

            "That won't be necessary. If Lucy isn't here, it can't be helped, I'm afraid."

            As the aristocrat babbled on about how sad he was, Rogue called Laxus over to talk business. Sting paid for another room and some oil, and Rogue took him away.

           

            "I wish Lucy could be here. Already, the excitement upon entering this very closet from my last visit has vanished."

            Rogue helped the man out of his jacket, kissing his neck.

            "I should think this next round would be quite different. So much so, I think I shall need to prepare myself for an entirely new process."

            Rogue unbuttoned the man's vest, sucking just under his jaw.

            "How shall I know what to do? Lucy was very good at instructing me. She was much like a personal teacher, directing my every move. She was much like a puppeteer, really."

            Rogue removed the man's tie and unfastened the man's blouse, dampening the aristocrat's skin with his heavy breaths.

            "She was so helpful. Even the way she looked back at me was reassuring. You know, she has quite the dark set of eyes. Dark like the sky."

            Rogue pulled the man's trousers down, coming away from him to speak. "Her eyes are not like the sky."

            "Oh, but they are. Dark and mysteri-"

            "Her eyes aren't that dark."

            "That was how they appeared when she turned to gaze upon me."

            "Well, they're not that dark."

            "Rogue, I must ask you a question."

            He stopped working on the man's trousers, staring him straight in the face. "Why do you remember my name?"

            "Why, Rogue! However could you think any less of yourself! Of course I remember your name."

            "You're quite fond of Lucy's name."

            "Indeed, this is why I must ask you a question. You see, the last time I was here, I couldn't help but notice a sort of rivalry between the two of you. I must know this: Are all paupers fighting for attention?"

            Rogue paused for a while. "No."

            "Is the rivalry strictly between you and Lucy? Or is this common amongst prostitutes?"

            He paused again. "If you must know, clients usually request a single whore at a time."

            "Oh," his brow folded in distress. "Do forgive me, I've made a discourteous decision..."

            "It's all right." Rogue instructed that the man step out of his trousers.

            "And I must also know why you think so little of yourself that you assumed I would've forgotten your name."

            Rogue unbuttoned the man's underwear suit, kissing his way down to Sting's hips with each undone fasten.

            "Even if you are a pauper, you must really think better of yourself."

            He rubbed the aristocrat's balls through the fabric, causing Sting to gasp.

            "Oh! You see? How was I to prepare for that? I really so miss my last visit. Though I know it was vulgar. Oh, dash it all!"

            Rogue put his lips against the bulge and sucked, Sting throwing his hands on him in a panic.

            "Oh no, Rogue! N-never!"

            He looked up at Sting, who stared back down at him with his eyes wide open. The aristocrat panted onto his forehead.

            "Don't be shy."

            "Never have I dreamed this would happen! Rogue, you're a beast!"

            "There's a first time for everything. You know, you're the first client to refuse my performance."

            "I do apologise, really I do."

            Rogue came off his knees and took Sting's underwear by the shoulders. "Are you ready?"

            The aristocrat held Rogue's wrists. "No!"

            "Will you ever be?"

            "No!"

            Rogue leaned in and took the man by the mouth, pushing Sting into the wall. He swam his tongue round Sting's, attempting to pull it into his own mouth. The aristocrat went along with it at first, not sure what to do with himself. Sting held Rogue's face, relaxing his arms enough that the prostitute could start removing the underwear. This was not Sting's plan, and he tried to keep his clothes on by raising his arms above his head. Rogue would need to get the man's arms out of the suit if he was going to undress him. So, he slipped his hands round Sting's sides and tickled him.

            "Rogue, no!" He latched his arms against his ribs, trapping the prostitute's hands in place.

            Rogue pulled himself free and took Sting's underwear. As he peeled it off the aristocrat, Sting cried refusal after refusal.

            "Oh, Rogue," he said as his underwear hung from his waist. The prostitute held it in place, waiting for the opportune moment.

            "Ready?"

            "Oh no!" A smile spread across his lips, a blush across his nose. "Rogue, oh no!"

            "Your hesitance is charming. You really are an aristocrat, aren't you?"

            "Of course." He held tight to Rogue's head. "I don't believe I could ever make myself more prepared than I am now."

            "What about your exciting new life? Could I help inspire you?"

            "You do inspire me, my dear Rogue. I dare say, I thought of you and Lucy every second I've been away."

            Rogue smiled, "I knew it. I told you, didn't I?"

            "I do still miss Lucy, and it seems I can never have the same experience as that first visit. I shall always remember."

            "The poor thing. I hope I can make this time just as memorable."

            "It'll have to do, yes."

            Rogue pulled the underwear below Sting's balls, exposing his barely erect member. The aristocrat started a heavier breath with Rogue's mouth just inches away from it.

            "Rogue..."

            He closed his mouth round the base and pulled away, dragging his tongue along the underside of it.

            Sting whimpered and straight after apologised for it.

            "Don't be frightened. Tell me what pleasures you." He unscrewed the oil container and slathered his hand. As Sting's legs trembled under his weight, the prostitute closed a hand round the aristocrat's dick. In a slow and easy motion, he pumped Sting.

            "Rogue!" The aristocrat bent forward, leaning over Rogue's head.

            "Does this please you?"

            "Your voice! The way you say these things to me is like poison! I'm not sure what's right anymore."

            "Why are you trying to be right? Isn't this all experimental?"

            "Of course, but is it? I'm not sure." He watched Rogue slide along his member another minute. "Is this the inspiration I'm looking for?"

            "I hope it is." He sucked the head of Sting's dick, swirling his tongue round it and poking the slit.

            "Rogue! Y-you're very good at this, aren't you?" He listened to the sucking noises for a while. "If it were up to me, I'd think this the perfect experience for a new lifestyle. I'd think this exactly what I've been hoping for."

            Rogue kissed off him. "So what's holding you back, my little shadow?"

            "I-" He stared down into Rogue's red eyes. "I don't know, really. In any case, if I were to get into any real trouble, it would only give me something to do. I've come to be extraordinarily bored, as it were."

            "Do you like wasting time with me?"

            "Very much so, yes. I still can't figure why exactly that is."

            Rogue took the member in his mouth, moving his hand down to grope Sting's balls.

            "Oh," he moaned, "Goodness!"

            Rogue sucked and licked and rubbed to get the aristocrat's penis up. It was remarkable how much control Sting had over it, considering how sensitive he was.

            "Rogue! Oh, Rogue!"

            It sounded like Sting was calling for help. Somehow Rogue felt second-hand embarrassment from it. At least he wasn't keeping to himself anymore.

            "Mmm," Sting dug his fingers into the prostitute's hair. He was already putting much of his weight on Rogue, leaning on him and such.

            The prostitute came off him again. "Sting, why don't you lie down?"

            He panted, "Where?"

            Rogue pulled him down and laid him across the carpet. The aristocrat had his knees together, hands hovering above his hips in mid-motion. Rogue held Sting's ankles and positioned them farther apart, sliding between the aristocrat’s legs.

            "Rogue..."

            "Pull my hair, Sting." As he lowered himself to the wet member, Sting tangled his fingers in Rogue's hair again.

            "Doesn't this hurt you?"

            "No, it feels good."

            Sting tensed his shoulders and Rogue knew the aristocrat liked his choice of words.

            "Spread your legs for me."

            "Oh, God..." Sting tipped his head back but didn't do much else.

            Rogue pushed the man's thighs down manually, feeling them trembled under his pressure. He ate up Sting's dick again, lips closed round the start of it, nearly against the man's balls. He tickled his throat with it, swallowing against the head.

            "Rogue, oh, God!"

            Sting fought the prostitute's hold to close his thighs, but Rogue kept him in place. He pumped Sting with his mouth, humming round it and making all sorts of sucking noises. The aristocrat arched his back. He moaned and kept crying out to Rogue. He panted long, heavy breaths, fists held tight against Rogue's head.

            "Rogue!"

            He gave it one more good suck before pulling off it, leaving Sting just before an orgasm. As the aristocrat squeezed his eyes closed, panting little whimpers, Rogue undid his trousers and slicked his own member in oil.

            "Are you enjoying yourself, Sting?"

            He nodded.

            He pushed two fingers into Sting, playing with his ring of muscle to get it to loosen up. Sting turned his head and raised a knee, twisting his hips against Rogue fingers.

            "Do you like this?"

            Sting pinched his lips together.

            He pushed his fingers deeper, Sting's hands still caught in his hair. He rubbed the aristocrat's insides, moving in and out of him.

            "Mmm!" Sting's entire body tensed; his back arched, legs closed, ass clenched... And before Rogue knew it, Sting came onto himself with a loud, "Aahh!" Followed by a louder gasp.

            Rogue continued thrusting until Sting was done.

            Well, that wasn't supposed to happen. He guessed he underestimated how well Sting could handle himself. That, or Rogue had teased him too much.

            Whatever the reason, the prostitute still had a pulsing boner. He didn't just begin to prepare Sting for nothing...

            Rogue moved his fingers around, sliding against the oil that now lined Sting's insides. He stretched the man and played with him, waiting for the skin to soften round his fingers. By then, the aristocrat was starting another hard on. The man must really be letting himself enjoy this.

            He held his dick up to Sting's entrance, forcing the aristocrat to tremble harder. "Do you want this?"

            He swallowed. "Y-yes..."

            Rogue pushed all the way into Sting. He took the man by the hips and pulled him closer, so he could sit in Rogue's lap. With one hand holding Sting there, he grabbed the man's dick and pumped it as he pushed in and out of him.

            Sting moved back and forth against the carpet with the pressure. His legs went limp round Rogue's waist, not knowing what else to do with them.

            "Sting," he moaned.

            The man wouldn't let go of Rogue's hair.

            "Hold your elbows above your head."

            Sting released his grip and raised his arms above his head, grabbing hold of his elbows. His entire torso was exposed and laid out before Rogue. He was a pretty aristocrat: chest heaving, legs shaking... Sting's chin pointed at the ceiling, his little blush, by then, covered his entire face.

            He slapped against Sting, fingering the head of the man's dick.

            Sting panted quick moans. He was becoming less talkative, and Rogue hoped that was a good thing.

            "Sting, do you like it?"

            He nodded.

            Rogue bent forward and kissed the man's chin, earning an anxious moan from the other. Sting took a deep breath from his open mouth, arching his back again. Rogue closed his hand round the base of Sting's dick and dragged his grip up and down, a slimy sound following his movements.

            "A-auh," Sting moaned, his dick jumping in Rogue's hand. His seed shot onto the prostitute’s lower stomach.

            Rogue kept going until he came inside Sting. The aristocrat took deep breaths, his heart pounding in his chest.

            Rogue pulled out and gave Sting's dick another suck. He licked Sting clean of his seed, sucking the aristocrat's soft skin. He continued to do so until he was up at Sting's face again, at which time he kissed the man.

            Sting lied still, trying to keep himself from shaking, eyes closed. Rogue kissed the man's open mouth, sucking on the man's lower lip.

            After a while of breathing, the aristocrat spoke up in a small voice. "Rogue... I've never felt quite like this before..."

            "So I did it, then. I got you to experience something new."

            He held Rogue's face, and the prostitute kissed him again.

            Rogue finished with the man and dressed him, collecting his earnings as before. He pushed the door open wider and pulled Sting out, leading him out the house. The aristocrat said goodbye again and kept thanking him with every step. Sting certainly was an upperclassman. Though, all the kindness made Rogue uncomfortable, and not just because Sting was a stranger.

           

            He walked back to his living quarter, using the rain to wash his hands. It wasn't too dark out, and the streets were still crowded. It wouldn't be too suspicious coming home at this hour. Sting kept him much longer than any client he'd ever had. He imagined it was because Sting had a way of talking too much.

            Well, Rogue had a pound in his pocket. That was more money than what everyone in his living quarter made all together. He thought about how he should spend it. Should he tell the others? Should he start saving for something? He thought about what they needed in the room. A stove would be nice for the winter. And that way they cook their own meals instead of having to buy hot gruel in the market. Would a stove even fit in the room? Where would he even get one?

            An aftertaste of oil and semen lingered on his tongue. He gathered enough saliva at the front of his mouth and spit onto the mud.

            Maybe he should ask the others what they would do with a pound. Not that he had one in his pocket. He didn't want to overwhelm them, not to the point that they would drive themselves mad with all the possibilities.

 

            Rogue entered the room, greeted at once by his dear friend.

            "Rogue is home now!"

            "Frosch!" He kneeled to embrace the exceed.

            Minerva sat up from lying in the corner. "There ye are, lad."

            The rest of them were either sleeping or eating thin bits of cheese round the room. They asked him how his day went and whether he'd brought anything home.

            Rogue asked back, "What would you do if you were rich?"

            Everyone chimed in with something to say:

            "I'd eat myself fat!"

            "I'd buy me a big old mansion! I'd buy everyone in this room a mansion too!"

            "I'd like a nice soft bed to sleep on."

            "I want an education. I want a better job than the one I've got."

            Rogue then asked, "If you could change one thing about the way we're living now, what would you do?"

            They all went off again:

            "I'd buy this room! I'm tired of renting it!"

            "I'd get a brand new bed."

            "I'd still eat myself fat!"

            Minerva asked him, "Why? Did ye rob the bank?"

            Rogue replied. "I earned more money than usual for my efforts, and I want to hear your say in the matter. What should I do with it?"

            They said:

            "Buy another bed."

            "Pay off the debt."

            "How much you got?"

            Rogue showed them the money, and everyone gasped, went faint, or shouted in triumph. By then, some of the others woke up to see what the matter was. The more privileged of the room gathered with Rogue to discuss how to spend it, Minerva and the rest waited round the outskirts of the huddle for the plan.

            "We'll pay off our debt," one suggested. "I'd rather a roof over my head than anything."

            "How much do we owe? Will a pound leave us with extra money?"

            "We'll have short of two pence left over."

            "That's not even enough for a spoon of milk."

            Rogue inputted, "Fine. As long as the debt's paid."

           

            So, they got their debt paid off for the time being, and Rogue added the remainder of the money to the savings box.

 

           

            Millianna laughed across the table, opening and closing her newly made matchbox. "The other day I saw a kitty! It was simply adorable! I wanted to take it with me and show it my home."

            "How are you finding all these cats?" Erza asked from the seat beside Rogue. "Are you still wandering the market for a husband?"

            "Oh, yes. I almost met a man. Our hands touched the same cabbage and we talked for a bit. I'm still not very good at meeting people."

            "That's all right. I've heard of successful single women."

            "I'd at least like a man who earns enough to take me away from the slum."

            Erza nodded, "I know. But we're making a living, aren't we?"

            "Hardly. But things could always be worse off."

            "Right. At least we're still able enough to stay out of the workhouse. "

            Rogue wasn't a woman looking for a husband. Nor was he interested in spending time round the market looking at small animals. At times like these, he would remain quiet until a better topic came about. Still, hearing them talk was enough to distract him from work: He'd simply go into autopilot and watch the boxes be made before his eyes.

            After work, he went to buy another loaf of bread. He had a crick in his neck from sleeping funny last night. Minerva's life must've been hell, having to sleep on the floor.

            Frosch met him at the door, and they all ate supper. They were sick of bread, but it kept them fuller longer than other foods. Time and again they had jam stored in the pantry. It was even less often that they had any vegetables.

            Rogue shared most of his rations with Frosch. Not because the exceed didn't make any money, but because Frosch was always so hungry. See, Minerva had taught Frosch how to shine shoes, and when the exceed wasn't being silly drawing flowers, Frosch would also help to clean customers' shoes. Not that they would stay clean for too long in the slum. So Frosch worked up a healthy appetite every day.

            Rogue's stomach didn't bother him too much. Knowing Frosch wasn't going hungry was good enough for him. The others thought he was foolish, but Rogue didn't care. All the ridicule from the factory over the years had made him thick skinned.

 

            He woke up before dawn again and eased out of bed, trying not to disturb Frosch. Though it didn't work as he'd planned.

            "Rogue," whispered the exceed. "Fro wants to go too."

            He put a hand on his friend's head. "Frosch, I need you to help Minerva. Can I count on you?"

            "Yes."

            "I knew I could. I'll be back soon."

            "All right. Goodbye."

            "Goodbye, Frosch." Rogue snuck out the door and headed down the spiral stair. He thought about doing something with his life. How he could work his way to fortune and get Frosch out of London, or the east end if anything.

            He could always hunt down that aristocrat at the whorehouse. Sting was very loose with his money. Maybe if Rogue could continue to give him the same treatment as last time, he could make some real money. Heck, he wouldn't have to build matchboxes anymore.

 

            So, after work, Rogue went straight to Laxus's house.

            He wouldn't be the only one to abandon the living quarter group. Lots of others had left them for better things. Rogue tried to get himself to stop thinking with a group mentality. If he was going to get Frosch out of the slum, he needed to start looking at life through an individualist lens. It was an unfamiliar idea. All his life, he'd worked to keep his given living quarter group well. The slum was a group effort. It was impossible to provide for yourself otherwise.

            But now Rogue wanted Frosch to be free of the caged life. Spending day to day inside the rotting room or out in the smog infested street. There was no time to play, no time to be young. He wanted Frosch to eat nice things, and sleep on soft beds, and wear stainless clothes. Maybe it was asking too much, but Frosch deserved better. More than anything, Rogue just wanted to be with his friend. He spent too much time away trying to earn money, when he should've been home playing with Frosch.

            Coming out of his thoughts, he realised the place had a steady flow of customers coming in. Lucy was there that day. She was talking to someone over on the side. Maybe she'd stay there long enough to miss Sting coming in.

            Time went on and he denied every customer that approached him, leaving Laxus furious. He explained how he was waiting for the aristocrat to come back. Laxus doubted he would, but Rogue kept standing by. By then, Lucy had seen three men, and she sat around looking for another one. He hoped someone would take her before Sting cam in.

            After a while, he hoped Sting would come at all. He was just as anxious as Laxus. Then, before his very eyes, an aristocrat appeared through the door.

            Sting looked around as Rogue ran straight to him.

            "Rogue! My dear-"

            "Let's go." He took Sting by the arm.

            "Now wait a minute. I'm requesting something different this round. How about I take you into town and show you the shops?"

            "No, don't be ridiculous." Rogue tried a smile, "How would I know how to look at shops?"

            "Oh, it's quite simple, really. Come, I'll show y-"

            Rogue pulled him farther into the house. "Wouldn't you rather stay here and put your feet up? You can sit on me, of course."

            "Well actually," he smiled back at the prostitute. "As much as I love your service, I'm looking for a companion to share the street with me. Maybe put your arm round mine... A pleasant talk..."

            Rogue lowered his brow, confused by that idea. "We can talk here. You do every time, you know."

            Laxus interrupted to get some money out of the aristocrat before the two of them ventured any further. Sting was hesitant to buy oil this time, but Laxus and Rogue both persuaded him into it. The man had money to spend anyway, even if he wasn't going to use the lubricant.

            Rogue led them out of sight, round a corner and into the back hall.

            "What I mean to say is, I'm looking to give you a treatment of my own. I'll be pleasuring you, as it were."

            "Pleasure me here, my shadow. Aw, you're not afraid of the dark, are you?"

            "Please, Rogue. Let me take you to see the town."

            He leaned into Sting's ear, brushing their cheeks together. "I don't want to give myself a reputation, if you know what I mean."

            "Of being seen with me? Why w-"

            "No, of being a whore."

            "Gracious! How in the world would-"

            Rogue dug his lips into the aristocrat's ear. "People round here don't simply walk with their arms round upperclassmen."

            Sting shied away from the touch, returning to kiss Rogue against the cheek. "I do find you fascinating, Rogue. Why, all you do is speak yet you make me want to kiss you."

            He blinked at Sting in awe. How could this man be so stupid? The reason he was so attached to Rogue was because he was a horny rich man. Being of such high society, he probably never had sex.

            "Oh, all right. We'll have a pleasant talk right here."

            "You're too kind." Rogue pulled the closet door open and led Sting inside.

            They sat on the carpet once again, and as the door closed on itself the hallway light became nothing more than a slit against the doorframe, peeking inside the room across their bodies.

            Sting situated himself directly in front of Rogue, sitting on his knees. He then went on about his day, and the day before, and the day before. He told Rogue how much he longed to be with him whenever they were apart. It sounded like the man had no friends.

            "Sting, you're a very busy person." He pulled his hands down the aristocrat's face, bringing them back up again in slow motions. "It's time you wind down."

            "I only do these things to occupy myself when we're not together. I almost didn't come today because I wanted to offer you a resting period from my last visit."

            "Such a considerate boy..."

            "Rogue, I must know more about you. Tell me about your family, your friends, where you live..."

            "There's no need to worry about me." He kissed Sting's lips. "I can handle myself."

            "I want to know you. What do you dream about? What was your mother like?"

            "I don't know anything about you either. Tell me about your life."

            So, Sting talked about growing up outside London. How he owned quite a few horses and went on hunting parties with his parental guardian and estate neighbours. Sting talked about his private tutor and how he was raised to take over the family company.

            Rogue stopped listening after a while, massaging the sides of Sting's head, dragging his hands back and forth, running his fingers through his hair, rubbing his ears...

            Sting relaxed his neck as he went on, the weight of his head rolling around with Rogue's hands. He took heavier blinks, his eyes half open.

            The man just kept talking. At first it was convenient, but Rogue couldn't understand how anyone could have so much to say about themself. He stuck his tongue out and leaned into Sting's mouth as he kept talking. The aristocrat pressed his lips down on it a few times before realising what was happening.

            "Oh, I do apologise. Are you trying to kiss me?" He puckered up for Rogue but the prostitute came away from him.

            "What would you like to do?"

            "Oh, all I want is to get to know you, Rogue. I find you so alluring. I must know more about you."

            That was just his upbringing talking. Sting was nothing more than another horny client. "Why don't you tell me a little something? Where would you like me to touch you, Sting?"

            "Just my heart." He smiled.

            Rogue stared at him with a baffled eye.

            "Open up to me, my dear Rogue." He took the prostitute's hands and held them against his chest. "Do share your secrets with me. I long to hear them. I long to know all about you. Please, Rogue?"

            "S-stop!"

            The aristocrat leaned back to give him some space, releasing Rogue's hands.

            He coughed, "My little shadow. I know you like to be touched down here." He rubbed the man's trousers.

            Sting tensed under his touch.

            "Would you like me to help you out of those trousers?"

            "Rogue, it has occurred to me that you know nothing beyond the brothel. Indeed, you must venture out and see the world. It's not healthy for a young man like yourself to keep inside a dark place all day."

            He said quickly before Sting could leave. "I don't just work here, I make matchboxes!"

            "Matchboxes? For smoking?"

            "For lighting matches."

            Sting smiled and got comfortable. "Tell me more, Rogue."

            So, Rogue told Sting how to make matchboxes. How you first began with the bottom piece, taking a dab of adhesive to it, and stuck another piece against it. How this process continued until you made a box. Then you'd make another one, one similar to a drawer shape, and fit it inside the bigger box. The two would fit together so it would be able to slide open and shut, like a small dresser. The matches needed to all fit evenly inside or you'd made a mistake gluing the pieces together, and you'd have to take it apart and start all over.

            "Rogue," he said with a wide smile.

            "Yes?"

            "Does this please you?"

            He didn't know what to say. He'd never been put in this kind of situation. Aristocrats were whole other animals. "Y-yes..."

            Sting gave a slight giggle, which made Rogue very uncomfortable.

            Who was this guy? Why did he care so much about a whore? A slum whore, no less. Was he some kind of policeman? Someone undercover to take down Laxus's establishment from the inside?

            "Sting, don't be so nice to me."

            "Nonsense! You've showed me such bliss, I could only dream of beginning to repay you."

            "You say you'd like to repay me?"

            "Oh yes, more than anything."

            "Don't ask me questions."

            Sting pouted. "Oh, come now!"

            "Let me touch you some more. Where would you like me to start?"

            "Do you really like pleasuring me so much?"

            "Of course, shadow. You're beautiful when you struggle below me."

            Sting looked away as he blushed. "I quite enjoy your treatment."

            "So then," he gripped the aristocrat's chin and forced Sting to look at him. "Where shall I start?"

           

            That man was troublesome. He talked too much and he didn't understand his own feelings. Why was he visiting the whorehouse as often as he was? Did he really have nothing else to do? Didn't he have a wife to do that with? Maybe not. Maybe that was why he kept coming back. Wasn't he worried about disease?

            Rogue walked through the market with another pound in his pocket, kneading it with a thumb. Where should he keep all this money? Not in the room, he didn't trust his living quarter mates that much. Not on his person, he could easily get mugged. Should he open a bank account? If he was going to adapt an independent way to life, he needed to start thinking about supporting himself. No more would he work for the group. He needed to begin working for Frosch and himself.

           

            He'd asked round for the nearest bank and ended up walking completely out of the slum. He stood before the bank, a grand, white stone building, with carved images above the windows, and columns before the front door.

            As he gawked up at it a constable stepped beside him from behind.

            "Are we lost?"

            Rogue looked at him. "Oh... No, sir..."

            "Heading to the bank, are we?"

            "Yes, sir."

            "Are we in need of some assistance as well?"

            Rogue gave a few deep nods in gratitude. "Yes, sir."

            The constable led him inside, where thick desks lined the walls, metal cages rested round the top of each one, behind which stood various men in formal suits. It was a lot to take in all at once. There were people speaking to these men from the other side of the cages, on Rogue's side of the room. It was like these men were birds, trapped to do banker things.

            Rogue was led to a man with a fat beard. The man watched him with distant eyes, seemingly looking straight through him.

            The constable coughed.

            "Yes," started Rogue. "I want to make a savings account."

            The man inside glanced at the constable. "Who recommended you to us?"

            "This is the closest bank to where I live, sir."

            "What is the amount of which you'll be depositing?"

            Rogue froze. Would they try to take his money from him? Would they not believe he'd earned it? Was this all a trap, why did the constable walk him inside? Rogue already felt out of place having left the slum. Maybe he should forget the whole thing and go home. He would find a place to store his money.

            The constable said, "Speak up, boy."

            "I-I have one p-pound."

            "One pound..." The moustache man raised his brow, waiting for the proof.

            Rogue flicked his eyes at the constable, wishing he would leave. "Yes. It's more than I've ever owned. So, I want to put it in the bank."

            "Produce it." Said the moustache man.

            Rogue took the money out of his pocket to show them, holding it close to his chest and gripping it tightly.

            "Well, well..." The man turned round and brought back with him a thick book, one he'd retrieved from a lower shelf. "Name."

            "Rogue Cheney."

            The man opened the book to what seemed like a specific page. Then asked Rogue to spell it out as he scribbled. He then said, "Occupation."

            Rogue put the coin back in his pocket. They would laugh at him if they knew where he worked. And he'd never received one pound from making matchboxes. They would grow suspicious or question him.

            The constable said again, "Speak up, boy."

            "Matchbox maker."

            The man scribbled. "Employer?"

            Would they contact his boss? Rogue tried not to think too much, lest the constable raise his voice again. "Elfman Strauss."

            The man scribbled as Rogue spelt it out. "Address?"

            Rogue hesitated, but told the man.

            He then turned the book round and handed Rogue the pen. "Signature."

            Rogue reached through the birdcage door and wrote his name on the line. Above his name, there were lots of other names with his same initials: R-C.

            The man closed the book and put it back, bringing forth two other, lighter ones. He turned to the first pages. These ones were brand new. In each one, he wrote the date and how much was being put into the account.

            Rogue was just glad he learned to spell. Otherwise this would've been a much more humiliating experience.

            "Your deposit."

            Rogue put the coin on the desk and slid it through the door. The man took it and looked it over, then took a stamp from his workspace and pressed the front page of one of the books. He closed them, and on the cover of one of them he wrote Rogue's name. On the other, the one with the stamp in it, he wrote something else. He pushed that book across the desk.

            "This is your copy of your passbook. You'll need to bring this with you every visit. I've stamped my contact information for you inside."

            Rogue took the book. "Thank you, sir."

            "For future reference, you'll need to write me an appointment schedule in advance."

            "Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I'll remember."

            "You'll need to keep up with a weekly deposit to keep your account open. You'll need to pay a fine to reopen your account if it closes."

            "Yes, sir."

            "Raise your right hand." He showed him.

            Rogue raised his hand.

            "I promise I have good intentions for opening a bank account."

            Rogue repeated it.

            "I'll go store your money now." He walked off with the other passbook and Rogue's pound. He put the book in a drawer of the tall storage cabinet, labelled R-C. Then he turned a large metal lock on the back door, and disappeared inside what Rogue presumed to be a safe.

            Rogue waited for the man to return.

            The constable put an arm round him and pulled him out of the building. "Come on, then."

           

            Now Rogue had to worry about where to hide his passbook. Not on his person, it was too awkward, and his banker's information was stamped inside. Not in the room, a book was much bigger than a coin. It would be much easier to find now. This might've been worse than hiding the pound. Well, at least it was only information and not actual money. He wondered if his job offered him insurance, lest someone find his bank and break into the safe.

            He couldn't go home until he'd hidden the passbook. He thought of places to hide it. Anywhere. Could he give it back? He had to. There was nowhere else to hide it. On his person would have to do until he could think of a better spot.

 

            Rogue returned home late again. He didn't get a chance to buy his share of food for everyone because the market closed up. Both Sting and the bank were against him this time. The passbook was shoved down the back of his shirt, pressed up against the end of his spine. His vest hung straight down, covering the odd lump in his back. Any other day Rogue would complain about having a vest too big for him, but it was perfect for the time being.

            "Fro waited for Rogue all day!"

            "I'm sorry, Frosch. Busy day." He lifted the exceed from the dirty ground.

            Minerva walked his way, hands on her hips. "Someone took a real shine to Frosch. Said he never saw better handiwork."

            "Fro worked very hard."

            Rogue smiled, "Good job, Frosch."

            "Said it was the wickedest thing he ever did see."

            "Not Frosch's handiwork."

            "Aye, that."

            "Well, what happened? Frosch, are you all right?"

            "Fro is all right if Rogue is all right."

            Minerva cocked her head. "Ye want Frosch back out tomorrow on the street with me, do ye?"

            "Fro doesn't mind. Fro helps Minerva."

            Rogue rubbed his face. "I don't want Frosch upstairs alone, but if people are going to make fun-"

            "Just take Frosch to work with ye."

            "Fro doesn't want to go to Rogue's work."

            Rogue patted the exceed to calm Fosch down.

            "Fro wants to keep shining shoes with Minerva. That man didn't hurt Fro's feelings!"

            Rogue hugged his friend. "Frosch, thank you!"

            Minerva hushed the both of them. "People are trying to get some shut eye round here. Ye know not everyone gets the bed, but with the both of ye screaming it won't matter whose sleeping on the floor."

            Rogue went to the table after Minerva left them alone.

            His friend whispered, "Fro wanted to wait for Rogue to come home before eating."

            Rogue tried not to express his feelings too much, but he thanked his dear friend in a passionate tone under his breath. Though he told Frosch to eat with the rest of the group next time. Rogue didn't want his friend waiting up all night.

            Oh, the exceed was such a blessing! Frosch put up with so much crap every day, but refused to let Rogue down. They were working together, in a sense. Rogue was so thankful for Frosch. As long as his dear friend could stand this lifestyle a bit longer, Rogue could work to get them both out of it.

 

 

            First of all, if Rogue had to send a letter to his banker every time he wanted to deposit something, he'd spend a lot of money of postage. Not only that, but he'd have to hide his money until he could see the man. Maybe he could write out a schedule to meet every day during a specific time slot. Then Rogue wouldn't have to worry about overlapping with other customers, and he could walk straight into the bank without having to send a letter every time.

            He just got out from work. Today he had a plan: He went to market to buy a loaf of bread, went home to feed everyone, told them he had to leave again, told Frosch not to worry and that he would be right back, and then went to Laxus's house.

            Sting was already there, and talking to Lucy.

            Rogue scurried across the room and latched onto the aristocrat's arm. "There you are!"

            Lucy scowled at Rogue as she quickly took the man's other arm.

            Sting smiled at him. "My dear, Rogue! I'm so glad the two of you are here today. It's so good that we can be here together."

            Rogue tugged on him. "Come, let's go."

            "Hold on a minute, Rogue. Lucy's agreed to accompany me into town. I know you'd prefer not to start a reputation, so I'll leave you be. But I do enjoy visiting you, Rogue. I'll come see you after I've brought Lucy back. That way, I can see both of you in one day."

            Rogue shook his head. This was not going according to plan. "Don't be silly. You came to relax not go for a walk."

            "Oh, I always like to go for a little stroll. Especially now that Lucy has agreed to come along." He turned away to share smiles with Lucy. "We shall see the shop windows, and the restaurants, and the attractions..."

            She bounced, "Oh please, lets!"

            "Then we're off!" Sting led her away and Rogue's grip fell from his arm. "I look forward to seeing you later, Rogue."

            "All right." He stood alone as the two of them exited the house, eaten by the sunlight filling the alley.

            This wasn't supposed to happen. How long would they be? Why was Lucy so excited to be paraded around in the city? Didn't she have any dignity at all? Everyone would know where she came from, and they would see her with Sting.

            No matter. It was none of Rogue's business.

            He waited all day, denying service again. Laxus encouraged him to take other clients in the meantime, but Rogue knew it was all small potatoes. Sting had the real money. He guessed if he acquired enough customers he could buy postage. Then he wouldn't need to break up a pound.

            Rogue began taking men into the back, giving just enough of his service to get some money but keeping a steady flow into the closet.

            The alley turned orange. It was getting later. Sting still hadn’t arrived back with Lucy. Rogue thought about going into market while sellers were still active. Sting would wait for him.

            He journeyed into the street and looked for supplies to write a letter. Everything was so expensive. Vegetables, soaps, clothes... He looked away from the food carts. Eventually he spotted a vender of letter supplies.

            Everything on the seller was surprisingly cheap. So cheap, in fact, Rogue didn’t need as many clients as he'd taken. He bought a blue stamp with the English queen on it for a penny, and an envelope and paper for three shillings one penny. He borrowed a bit of ink the seller provided, and wrote out his schedule for his banker. Every day he would drop by the same time he had his first visit. It seemed simple enough. Why would he need to send a letter every day? That would be too tedious.

            So he sealed the letter in the envelope, and asked the man for additional instruction. He was told how to write the banker's address, using his passbook as a reference, how to write his own address, and where to put the stamp. Once that was all done, he paid another penny to send it. The man took the letter and dropped it into the post box behind him.

            Rogue went back to Laxus's house, hoping the letter would reach his banker in time. He knew it would, the bank wasn't very far.

            He waited for Sting to come back, but the man never did. It was dark out then, and Rogue would be late to eat with everyone again. He hoped Frosch had eaten something, probably not. He hurried home. This day hadn't gone the way he'd expected.

 

            "Rogue," said Minerva. "It happened again."

            "Fro didn't mind."

            Rogue held his friend. "Not again. Why does he keep coming back?"

            "Said giving beggars a few pennies brings good luck. Said it keeps people out of trouble."

            Frosch said, "The man is just trying to be nice."

            "Take Frosch to work with ye if you're bothered so."

            "I respect Frosch's decision. This man, what does he look like?"

            "He's got nice clothes. Smells like us though."

            Rogue knew it couldn't have been Sting, but he just wanted to make sure. Needless to say, they didn't see very many people with money round the east end. Sting definitely didn't smell like them. It must've been some other prick bothering Frosch. He hated that his dear friend had to put up with strangers like this. But he truly did respect Frosch’s decision. He was truly thankful for Frosch’s understanding.

 

 

            Lucy loitered around Rogue, probably because Sting would come in looking for the both of them.

            She sighed. "He seemed quite interested in me. I think he may ask me to marry him."

            "He's interested in whores. He asked to take me into town too."

            "Oh." She turned away, slumping her shoulders.

            "How much did he pay you?"

            "Enough. I'll go again if he asks me."

            Rogue wondered if she was earning more from going into town with him. Not that he would do anything about it. He wasn't that desperate.

            When Sting came through the door, Lucy greeted him first. He greeted her with more excitement he'd ever shown Rogue. They talked for a moment before Sting look round for him.

            "My dear, Rogue! I do apologise for yesterday!" He came over with Lucy round an arm. "The time ran away without us. I'm so ashamed to have kept you waiting. Today, I'll see you first before going out again with Lucy."

            The woman mentioned, "But it looks like rain. We'll get caught in the downpour if we don't leave soon."

            'Oh my," Sting looked to Rogue. "Well, what do you suggest?"

            Lucy said, "Oh, let's go. I had so much fun with you. You're so clever, and amusing, and..."

            Sting chuckled at all the praise and started moving towards the door. Lucy stepped ahead of him to lead him out, encouraging him to leave with her.

            Rogue stood dumbfounded for a moment. What was happening? Was he fighting Lucy for Sting's attention? Should he try to win him back?

            He chased after them and took Sting by the shoulder. "Where do you think you're going, lovely? To talk the poor girl's ear off? Come back to my room with me, I'll show you a better use for that mouth."

            Lucy argued, "You can't be witty if your mouth is full. What you want is a nice walk. You love peering into intricate windows. Remember the one with the horses?"

            Sting nodded and pulled against Rogue, who fought back. "You can have private seating to your own personal ride, right here. You'll love my custom fit saddle, once I've prepared you for it."

            Lucy frowned at him, tying to think of something to say. "You don't want that oily residue left over. You can have fun while dry, before the rain that is."

            "Or you can get wet. Sting, you loved popping yourself inside one of my more damp districts, didn't you?"

            Sting nodded and pulled against Lucy, who said, "If you don't come with me now every district in London will be damp."

            The aristocrat came to. "You know, this is a rather difficult decision. Is there no other way to see you two?"

            Laxus waltzed into the conversation. "Pardon my intrusion, sir, but what is the trouble over here?"

            "I cannot for the life of me decide whether to go on a stroll with Lucy or stay here with Rogue."

            Laxus gave an instant answer. "Stay here. Anyway, it's about to rain."

            Lucy huffed.

            Laxus was only trying to make money. He couldn't do that if whores were taking clients away from the house.

            "Oh, Lucy, I do apologise. Perhaps another day."

            Laxus asked, "Why not stay here with her? That's what she's here for."

            "Very true, my good sir, but I do wish I could offer more than just my sex to these lovely two. I want to know them. I want to show them outside the east end of London."

            While Sting carried on dramatically about his dream, and while Lucy stared longingly into his eyes, Laxus and Rogue looked at one another in disbelief. They weren't sure if they should laugh, because the situation wasn't exactly funny; they weren't sure if they should feel upset, because it wasn't quite frustrating enough... What was going on? Why was there an aristocrat so far away from main London? There must've been plenty of nicer whorehouses. And why was this aristocrat set on taking the whores away from the slum? Was he looking for a wife? Was Lucy right all along?

            Laxus tried turn Sting on to the regular use of the whorehouse, but the man wouldn't have it. After some disagreements round the group, Sting decided he'd come another day when it wasn't raining. He would hate to stay with Rogue and then not be able to take Lucy out. And he would hate to force Lucy into staying with him when she'd already agreed to leave with him. So, he decided neither of them would spend time with him that day.

            Laxus proposed another idea. "Why don't you rent a room you can all talk in if you're so against having sex?"

            "Oh, of course!" Sting took the prostitutes' hands. "Shall we sit and talk? We won't be able to get too intimate though, for Rogue will be having his way then. But if we're neither leaving nor removing our trousers, I should think we’d find the middle ground. Do the two of you find that agreeable?"

            Lucy nodded, "Oh, yes!"

            Well, Rogue wanted the money so he agreed as well.

            The aristocrat bought them a room and the prostitutes walked him into the back hall. They all got comfortable in one of Laxus's larger spaces: An actual room. They sat round in a circle on the flat mattress, which was on the floor and took up most of the room. Sting smiled at them, removing his jacket and laying it down behind him.

            Lucy got along with him effortlessly. The walk they took the other day must've brought the two of them closer. They had so much to talk about Rouge could hardly say anything. It was like working with Erza and Millianna.

            By the end of their time together, Rogue learned more about Lucy than he'd ever wanted to know. Though it seemed she talked in circles, so really he still didn't know her at all. But that was normal. Rogue didn't feel too keen on telling Sting everything about his domestic life either. All they really talked about was aesthetics. Things that would satisfy Sting but keep him coming back. Things that aristocrats liked to know but were otherwise useless. Like what their favourite colours were, or what time of day they enjoyed best. Aristocrats were weird.

 

            Rogue took his money to the bank. The man with the moustache told him he'd received the letter, but disagreed with the schedule. Rogue tried to explain how he had no other times to meet during the day. They discussed Rogue's situation at home, and how he had to hide his money from his roommates. If they were to meet at the end of each week, as the banker would've preferred, Rouge would have to hide his money every day until he could store it in the bank. If that were to happen, Rogue may as well not have a bank account, because he would need to be very good at hiding his money, and if that were the case he wouldn't have come to the bank anyway.

            His explanation was all over the place but the banker did his best to understand, which Rogue was thankful for. They settled on a time during each day of the week so Rogue wouldn't have to take his money home. This designated time frame just so happened to be straight after he would finish with Sting. So as long as Lucy didn't interfere too much, Rogue could get Sting's money and be done for the day. He could return home before too late and eat with Frosch. He could also get a decent amount of sleep then.

 

            With Rogue's most recent pound in the bank, he came home to Frosch and Minerva, both still up and waiting for him.

            "The man's got a god eye on Frosch," she said.

            "Fro doesn't mind. Fro likes shining shoes with Minerva."

            Rogue sighed at the whole thing: Trying to smuggle away money, putting up with work, practically forcing Frosch to put up with that man... The whole thing. His and Frosch's life basically.

 

            The next day at work, Elfman came round to talk to him as he piled more papers onto the assembly table.

            "Congratulations," he said. "I hear you've opened a bank account."

            Rogue blushed with all the women listening in. What would they think? Would they question what sort of money he had?

            "You're headed in the right direction. You're starting to think like a man."

            Rogue looked up at him. "Thank you, sir."

            Erza gave him a proud smile as Rogue pushed the wheelbarrow off. He would've liked not to cause a scene. As he walked down the aisle of women, their backs turned to him while they sorted through papers, he reminded himself he didn't need to tell anyone anything. If they asked about his money it wasn't mandatory that Rogue tell them, even if they were friends. As long as he could keep a secret, nobody would ever find out about any of it.

 

            Rogue bought some bread and took it home. He shared a quick moment with Frosch for moral support and then headed for the whorehouse. He loved his dear friend so much. This was all for Frosch. When this was all done, he'd buy them their own house. He'd get an education. He'd get a better paying job that he could bring Frosch along to.

            Lucy couldn't stop talking about the aristocrat. The two of them were really hitting it off. When Sting arrived, he tried to take Lucy out to the city again, but Rogue urged him to stay and have sex with him first. Lucy didn't like that idea. She thought it would take too much out of the aristocrat, and that he wouldn't be fit enough to take a stroll after that.

            Sting wanted to go with Lucy. He thought her idea of spending the daytime wisely and taking a walk first was only logical. And after taking a walk he could come back to Rogue, and he would be ready to relax by then.

            Rogue wouldn't have it: He wouldn't get to the bank on time, and that would ruin the rest of his day's schedule. He talked Sting into staying and having sex first, but he was already set on leaving with Lucy. They fought long enough that Laxus got involved, and it became he and Rogue against Sting and Lucy.

            The argument only went downhill, and everyone became too upset for Sting's liking. He decided he'd leave and think up a new plan before ever returning again if this was going to happen every visit. Laxus tried to get him to rent a room so they could all talk about it in private, but Sting had made up his mind. That is, until Lucy bribed him into doing it for her. Just for her.

            Sting finally agreed and they went to the back room again.

            "I'm quite beside myself, you two. How are we to spend any more time together if we're always fighting?"

            Lucy said, "Taking a walk before having sex makes most sense. You wouldn't want to get up all shaky and join society after being ravaged by Rogue, would you?"

            _Ravaged..._ Were they talking shit about one another now? Two could play at that:

            Rogue said, "Sex will loosen you up. You walked all the way here to pick Lucy up. You might as well spend some time here before you leave again. We wouldn't want you spending too much time on your feet. Think about all the stress you'll be putting on you body. Not to mention your shoes."

            Lucy shook her head at the aristocrat. "You wouldn't want to freshen yourself up again. You already did that before leaving the house. Wouldn't it be better if you waited to take your clothes off at the end of the day?"

            Sting couldn't take his eyes off Lucy. "That's just was I thought. It would only be logical to take you out first before lodging here with Rogue. I do like both of you, but I also like to do the most rational thing. Why would I be intimate with someone before leaving for a public stroll?"

            Lucy shared smiles with him, and Rogue couldn't help but feel the aristocrat chose a favourite. Rogue made it clear that after a certain time of day he would be unavailable. It only made things more complicated. Because Sting was so set on taking Lucy first, he began planning faster trips. Walks that would bring them back to the whorehouse faster so he could spend time with both of them. This was all ruining Rogue's initial plan.

 

            The same thing happened the next day. Rogue argued with Lucy about when to take Sting. By then, it turned into something much like a contest: Who would win Sting over? Rogue could already tell there wasn't going to be much of a fight. The aristocrat liked Lucy too much.

            He thought about forcing Sting into the closet, but he didn't want to resort to that. He would have to get the aristocrat to like him again. It was so much easier when Lucy wasn't around.

            When Sting came, Rogue tried his best to encourage him to stay, but Lucy was so much better at it. It was almost like they had their own language that Rogue couldn't get a hold of. Maybe if he just swallowed his pride and left with them? He really didn't want to, and sex was so much more familiar to him. You never had to worry about navigating the streets, or what you looked like, or what others were thinking of your clothes or your walk, and you certainly never had to worry about manners or holding yourself like a respectable human being. No, he couldn't stand taking walks. Not in uppity London. He was stuck it seemed.

 

            Well, Rogue had three pounds in the bank. That was an unthinkable amount of money. He couldn't believe he'd saved up even one pound. Sometimes it made him uneasy and he couldn't sleep at night. Owning so much money was uncomfortable. It made him feel guilty. Like he stole it or something. He had to remind himself that he'd earned it fairly. He had every right to own that money.

            But it wasn't enough.

            If he was going to get Frosch out of the slum, he needed to earn at least five or six pounds to buy a house and get an education.

            Every day he'd go to work, buy bread, wait around for Sting only to be stood up, go home to Frosch for the day, sleep to wake up again...

            The man kept bothering Frosch and Minerva at the doorstep. Except the things he'd say were turning from smug to considerate, which was better. Upper class or not, nobody could talk to Frosch with such disrespect. So, things were getting better at home. Aside from that, the living quarter group got themselves out of debt again. They stuck together like no other group before.

            Because things were going so well, Rogue gained enough nerve to wait around the whorehouse for Sting and Lucy. Summer was coming, so it stayed lighter longer, and it was getting hotter. This took some weight off Rogue's mind: Now Frosch wouldn't have to wait up for him in the dark, and they wouldn't freeze overnight with what thin blankets hey had.

            Rogue and Sting finally had a chance to see each other again, and Rogue added another coin to his savings. He was glad his banker was still there, but the man reminded him of their schedule, quite inconvenienced by Rogue's tardiness. Rogue wondered if staying late was the best idea, even if that was the only time Sting would see him. Well, if he couldn't see Sting what was the point of going to the bank? He supposed this was his only option. He could stomach his banker's complaints. Just how he stomached Elfman's.

            If Frosch could be strong and stay home, shining shoes and putting up with some guy's talk, Rogue could be strong and do whatever it takes to get more money.

 

           

            Shuffling through papers to find the last side to his matchbox, Rogue listened to Erza's spiel about working to the best of their abilities. She was replying to Millianna's complaint about the workload.

            "It is hard," Erza agreed. "But we've gotten rather good at it, haven't we?"

            "I suppose. I do wish we got better pay for all we do. We arrive before dawn and we work until dusk. We should be able to afford more than a few groceries."

            "I agree. I can't even save money; we're only given enough to pay for one day's rations. Some nights I go without eating to pay the debt on my house."

            Millianna asked, "How many others live in your quarter?"

            "Right now there are five of us. Some of the others have impressive trade skills, like sewing, and they bring home much more than I do. It's shameful that I'm unable to provide for my quarter like they can. But this is the best I can do."

            "I'm in your same position: There I'm one of eight in my living quarter. We share our two beds by splitting the group in half. I feel guilty every night knowing I make a fraction of what the others do, yet I lay beside them as though I'm just as deserving." She started a lighter tone, "What about you, Rogue?"

            He said, "I live with eight other people. Only four of us sleep on the bed. We don't feel bad for those who're worse off, we motivate them to work harder."

            Erza nodded, "That's right."

            "Rogue," Millianna asked, "What money do you put in the bank? You're not working two jobs, are you? That sounds awful."

            He came up with a quick story. "I save money for my living quarter group. The others pay for rent and groceries."

            Erza said, "That sounds like a plan."

            The two women carried the conversation along to a different topic and Rogue could relax again. He didn't think convincing them of anything would be so easy. That was not to say he wasn't grateful for it.

           

            At the whorehouse, Rogue fiddled with his friendship ring, twisting it round his finger so the moral support would activate. He waited for Sting to bring Lucy back. Why couldn't aristocrats just settle for sex? Why did they feel the need to bring people with them around the city? If Sting wasn't so prissy about it, he could have Lucy and Rogue in a room respectively within a couple of hours. But he had to show Lucy the town, which took a couple of hours in itself. No matter, as long as the banker would take Rogue's money.

            Sting came back eventually, all dreamy eyed with Lucy's arm round his. They looked like how Rogue would imagine a couple on their honeymoon, except Rogue would be getting Sting's sex.

            He led the aristocrat to their usual room, but now that Sting knew there was a mattress in the larger room he wanted to use that space instead.

            Rogue crawled on top of him as the man asked, "What ever did happen about that east end London murder?"

            "I don't bother myself with the newspaper."

            "But it happened right here. Doesn't that bother you? Don't you worry for your wellbeing?"

            "I've got too much to worry about already."

            "You see, Rogue, this is exactly why we must talk more. I still know next to nothing about you."

            "We could if you'd have sex with me before going out with Lucy. I can't stay and wait for you all night, you know."

            "Oh, I know. Our predicament is simply too cruel. I wish I could take you both out on a pleasant stroll, but you insist on hiding yourself away."

            "I don't feel comfortable leaving the slum."

            "And that's just the trouble. Though, I don't blame you, Rogue. I know there are many sots of people, and with that comes different sorts of familiarities. Lucy seems to quite enjoy herself when she accompanies me."

            "Lucy's not here. You're on my time now."

            "Oh, of course. Here I am rambling on about something you're not interested in when I should be focusing on you."

            Nothing Sting said was ever interesting to Rogue.

            "How are you tonight, my dear?"

            "I 'm hungry for my shadow."

            Sting blushed. "I've forgotten how much your words strike me. They're like poison, if I recall..."

            Rogue dragged his fingers down the aristocrat's bare chest, pushing into the soft skin. He positioned his hands at Sting's collar to repeat the process. Slowly he tipped his fingertips down, tracing his nails along Sting's pecks to his hipbones. After a few more rounds of this, he concentrated the procedure to Sting's lower regions, dragging his nails from the man's navel to the sides of his balls.

            Sting's thighs shook at the sudden change of attention. Did he expect Rogue to continue travelling the entire length of his torso forever? When would they ever go home?

            The prostitute concentrated his procedure further, scrubbing his nails beside Sting's balls, his fingers brushing up against them.

            "Rogue, what should I do? How can I make this experience unforgettable for you the same way I've made Lucy's for her?"

            He stared at the dick before him in annoyance. "You don't have to do anything. Just relax and let me do all the work."

            "If you insist. I should like to perform something on you, if you'd allow. I'd hate for you to wait all evening for me just to make me feel better. I should prefer an alternative situation in which you wait for me to make you feel better."

            "Don't be ridiculous. You just came back from your walk. You must be so tired." He crawled closer to Sting's face.

            Meanwhile, the man sat up. "Quite, though I still would like to help you feel-"

            Rogue kissed him, and then Sting pulled away to continue.

            "To help you feel as wonderful-"

            Rogued kissed him again to try and convince him to stop talking. But Sting pulled away again.

            "Feel as wonderful as you make me feel."

            Rogue could hardly stand it. He put his frustration into better making out with the aristocrat, licking him straight across the mouth to the tip of his nose.

            The latter bit put Sting in a slight shock, and this gave Rogue the opportunity to slick his tongue into the aristocrat's mouth. Sting tried to move his tongue as well this time, copying Rogue's movements. Rogue wished the man would just take it easy. He wasn't expecting anything from Sting. Rogue new the man wasn't going to be very skilled at this sort of thing. Sting didn't need to try to be.

            Rogue kissed off him. "Just relax."

            "I want to pleasure you as well. What shall I do? Would you like me to touch your penis?"

            Rogue took the man's approaching hands. "That won't be necessary. Please, shadow, I don't expect you to do anything but lie beneath me."

            "But I want to pleasure you." He smiled into Rogue's lips. "Please let me."

            Rogue rolled his eyes.

            "May I touch you?"

            "Of course." Was what he said. _You can try_ was what he wanted to say.

            Sting wrapped himself round the prostitute, holding his naked body against Rogue's clothed one. Suddenly, Rogue remembered why they shouldn't do that.

            "Don't!" He freed himself from the embrace. Then he thought quickly, "Y-you can only touch me from the waist down."

            Sting held his hands as if to scold them. "Oh, right, of course. I do apologise. I didn't mean to-"

            "Stop apologising."

            "Right." He turned his attention to Rogue's bare legs. "So then. I can't say I've done this before."

            Rogue stared at the man in awe.

            He looked up at Rogue. "What is it? Is that so hard to believe?"

            "But you have one."

            "That doesn't imply I spend time dwelling on the function of it."

            Rogue squinted at him. "Are you human? What are you, Sting? You're only a few ranks above me but we're two different species, aren't we?"

            "Well, people of high society aren't exactly encouraged to fondle ourselves. We see the act as being quite vulgar, even immoral."

            "It's no wonder you show up here so often."

            Sting blushed. "It's not because I'm deprived that I visit, it was first the experience, then coming to visit the two of you. I was actually drawn to the east end of London by the murder in the newspaper."

            "That's why you want to take me out? Because you'd rather talk with me than have sex?"

            "I like your sex. It just wasn't my first intention upon arriving to the brothel. I actually didn't realise it was a brothel until I met Lucy."

            "You've never seen a brothel... Don't they have them out of the slum?"

            "I wouldn't know," said Sting. "I don't live in London. I'm renting an apartment so I can gather a bit of inspiration."

            "You really have nothing else to do?"

            Sting raised his shoulders. "Nothing at all. Not at the moment."

            Rogue grew envious of the aristocrat. Before, Sting was just another way of getting money. But now that Rogue was learning more about him, the aristocrat was becoming less and less tolerable. He talked too much, he was rich, he didn't have anything else to do all day, he'd been sheltered from the working class, he didn't know anything other than how to be respectable... He was just a prissy rich man.

            The aristocrat put a hand on Rogue's member. "Is this all right?"

            Rogue failed to keep the grumble out of his voice. "It's fine."

            While the aristocrat fondled him and chatted up another storm, Rogue looked at his friendship ring. If Frosch could be strong so could he. Rogue could have sex with this prick, even if Sting was the living embodiment of his dream: The man could buy anything he wanted, he had all the time in the world, he didn't even live in London. That was the life for Frosch and Rogue.

            "I'm not sure this is doing anything for you." Sting admitted as he pumped Rogue's dick.

            The prostitute looked down at their legs, their dicks waving at each other. He held onto Sting's and showed the man how to give a proper hand job.

            "How long have you been a prostitute, Rogue? You're very good at what you do."

            "A long time."

            "You're also a matchbox maker, aren't you?"

            "Don't memorise everything I tell you."

            Sting looked away with a small pout. "I see you're still shy about letting me get to know you.

            "We don't need to know each other. Clients usually don't talk."

            "Oh." He thumbed the head of Rogue's member as the prostitute was doing to his. He caught a glimpse at Rogue's makeshift jewellery. "What's that, a ring?"

            Rogue pulled his hand away, replacing it with his other hand. "Don't look at that."

            "Please, Rogue, you don't tell me anything!"

            "I don't want to talk to you!" He instantly regretted saying that. What if the aristocrat started not liking him back, and all of his money went to Lucy? As a first instinct, he pushed Sting onto his back. "I-I want to pleasure you!"

            His mouth came down on Sting's dick, pushing it to the back of his throat. The aristocrat whimpered in slight terror, probably from being pushed. Rogue worked fast and hard to keep the aristocrat occupied. The last thing he wanted was for Sting to start talking again. About anything. He sucked the man's brains out just to get him to forget everything that'd just happened.

 

            With one or two pounds left to go, Rogue went home for the night. The sky was clear from what he could see passed all the tightly knit buildings. Some low matted clouds floated round from the factories down the street a ways. He worked up a sweat trying to hurry along the cobblestone in the heat.

            Minerva stayed awake with Frosch until Rogue came home, not only for the exceed's sake, but probably because it gave her an excuse not to sleep. Either way, she never minded.

            The room was muggy without a breeze. It made the stink of the wallpaper worse. And with everyone laying about sweating, the room filled with all kinds of smells. It was a good thing they couldn't afford much food. Everyone was stripped down to one layer.

            Rogue laid at the end of the bed stuck in his long sleeved shirt and vest, one of his roommates glued to his side. He was afraid that if he removed any of his clothes the passbook would free itself, or at least make itself more apparent. So, he left everything alone.

            He'd gotten used to sleeping on his stomach because of the passbook. He didn't move too much in his sleep; there was no room to. Frosch journeyed around quite a bit though. From against his neck, to between his legs, to across his stomach, to over his face. Ever since the passbook, the exceed was told not to sleep on Rogue's back. He convinced his friend that he'd developed a pain from work. Frosch understood and had been sleeping anywhere but ever since.

            That night, Frosch couldn't sleep. The exceed draped off the side of Rogue's head, staring down at the floor, paws running down Rogue's face.

            "Frosch, what's wrong? It's not that man, is it?"

            "No."

            They lied quiet for a while until his friend spoke again.

            "Rogue will leave soon. So Fro will stay up and be with Rogue longer."

            "Frosch, you need to sleep. What about shoe shining Tomorrow?"

            They lied quiet again.

            Rogue put a hand on his dear friend, holding their heads together.

 

 

            Elfman walked beside him as Rogue wheeled more paper down the aisle. He explained how he could send Rogue off to another company for a small sum of money, and that it would be a better job, one that pays more and involves real men's work. Rogue declined the offer, especially if it was going to cost him.

            "You don't want a man's job? You want to work here, shaming yourself your whole life?"

            "I don't have very much money to spend."

            "I didn't expect you to pay me in full. You can just pay me a little every week until it's done."

            "Thank you, sir, but I like my job."

            "You don't want to know your full potential as a man? Working with heavy machinery, building up this country, making real money... That's where we belong."

            "No thank you, sir."

            "What's the matter with you? Are you pigeon livered?"

            "No, sir."

            "Have you got knickers on?"

            Rogue stopped and turned to the man. "I've worked with heavy machinery before, sir. The reason I make matchboxes is to avoid worse injury. I nearly lost my head under a machine, and I have a family to take care of."

            His boss stayed behind as Rogue pushed the papers to the end of the table.

            Rogue was one of the lucky ones who escaped working at the cotton mill. It was a wet floored place with loud, fast moving machinery. The workers stood in a line monitoring how each of their designated spools filled with string. Elsewhere in the mill, workers helped machines turn cotton into yarn, which was then put into the machine where Rogue was stationed, the spool making machine. Everything was clockwork, and it all had to match up and run smoothly. Once all of a person's designated spools were wound, they turned off their section of the machine. This continued until all the spools were full and all of the individual machines were off. At which time, the manager at the end of the line rotated the full spools for empty ones, which was activated by a single lever and the machine did the rest of the work. From what Rogue could see from his station, the full spools were taken under the machine to the other line of workers on the other side of it, and new spools were brought into place on a wheel below the machine. The workers on the other side were in charge of cutting the string and removing the spools before the machine took them back to the other side.

            Sometimes the loose strings would jam the gears, and workers had to crawl under the machine to get them straightened out or removed all together. This happened regularly, and each worker was responsible for their designated machine. One day, some of Rogue's string got caught with his neighbour's machine, and they both journeyed below to get the situation cleared up. They worked for so long that it came time to rotate spools. The gears turned and the full spools came down to rotate with the empty ones. The heavy metal pushed Rogue and his neighbour down to the floor. They crawled backward as fast they could to get out from under it.

            Rogue had one side of his face crushing against the wet tile but the machine kept pushing down. It all happened so fast. All the noise stopped, he couldn't feel anything either, not his emotions, nor the cold against his face... The only thing on his mind was to get out before he was killed. He managed to pull his head out on time, but when he turned to his neighbour he was shocked to find the man had lost an arm. It wasn't long after that when Rouge found he'd been sliced through the nose. If he'd been any farther under, the machine would've gone through his skull.

            He instantly thought of Frosch. He thought about how he needed to stay safe for his dear friend. If he were to die, who would provide for and be there for Frosch? The experienced frightened him so much that he began working a much blander job. And thus was the tale of why Rogue was the oldest man on the assembly.

 

            At the whorehouse, Lucy was on about falling in love with the aristocrat again. What a bunch of rubbish. Both Lucy and Sting were caught up in this dream of having found one another by fate and needing each other to live when it was all just deprivation: Lucy could never get a man and so was addicted to all the attention, and Sting could never get any real intimacy and so was addicted to sex and strolls.

            Rogue knew better. He saw through the both of them. In any case, he was only there for Sting's money. He didn't much care what the other two were doing together. Much less that they thought they were in love.

            The two of them returned and Lucy handed the aristocrat off to Rogue.

            "I've never felt so happy." He hung on the dark haired prostitute's arm.

            Rogue helped the man pay for his room and oil and took him back.

            "I wish I could make you feel the same way you and Lucy make me feel. Oh do let me try, Rogue. Last visit you took authority once again."

            The prostitute stared at him from across the mattress, a tired look about him. He wasn't only physically exhausted; keeping up an optimistic mind-set always took a lot out of him, especially because his end goal was so unrealistic. He supposed having met the aristocrat was a blessing: Now at least he had a better chance at making some money.

            He kept watching the man, pretending to listen, as Sting complained about wanting to pleasure him or something like that. Once the man quieted down and scooted closer, staring into his eyes like a prissy child, Rogue came out of his stupor.

            "If it pleases you."

            Sting wasted no time leaning in to kiss him.

            They sucked each other's lips for quite a while. The only sound became the clicks of their mouths breaking away time and again. Rogue sat slouched into Sting, going along with what the man wanted. It was weird that the aristocrat wanted only to kiss him, and not even with his tongue. All of Rogue's other clients always wanted to use their tongue. What was happening at the moment was unnatural... It was weird... It kept Sting from expressing how much he cared for him though.

            Rogue admitted the change was nice: Meeting someone unordinary who happened to have a lot of money. It added a bit more flavour to his repetitive lifestyle. The drawbacks were difficult to overlook however: Putting up with Sting's talking, waiting for Lucy to bring him back so Rogue could make it to the bank on time, making Frosch wait for him... Rogue tried to envision his goal for moral support, but he was so tired. He'd been dreaming of taking Frosch out of the slum for years. In the back of his mind he always knew he'd never be able to. Now that he was earning some real money, and the chances of him actually reaching his end goal were in his favour, he just wanted it to happen already. He was so fed up with waiting. A person can only be strong for so long. He knew Frosch didn't care about the circumstances as long as they were together, but Rogue wanted a better life for his dear friend. Frosch deserved so much more than Rogue could offer.

            "Rogue," the man sighed.

            Coming back to reality, Rogue found himself kissing the man even after Sting had stopped. He pulled back and waited for the aristocrat to do something more.

            "I am so intrigued by you. I wish you and I could talk like friends the way Lucy and I do. Are we not friends, Rogue?"

            The prostitute blinked. "You want us to be friends now?"

            "Oh," he looked down. "I suppose I have put this upon you myself, haven't I? I'm only wasting your time like this."

            Rogue didn't like where this was going. He shook his head wildly as Sting looked up at him again.

            "Forgive me, but I feel rather embarrassed." Sting smiled.

            "You're not a waste of my time. I quite like our visits."

            "Oh, but you never want to talk to me, and you've said you can't wait for me all day." He started a firm tone, "You know, I shouldn't trouble you any further. I might've known something like this was bound to happen. Concerning myself with unfamiliar classes, what did I expect?"

            "No, no! I want you to stay. Tell me more about your-"

            "You have things to attend to, don't you? You have work, chores, a family..."

            "No," Rogue put his hands on either side of the aristocrat's face. "Our time together is our own. Don't think about anyone else when you're with me."

            "It would pain me to keep you any longer. You've told me you need to be somewhere. I do apologise for always keeping Lucy too long."

            "Stop apologising."

            "Oh, that's right." He avoided eye contact. "Well, I see no other reason for you to spend any more time with me. I understand slum dwellers, as Lucy calls herself, have many domestic matters to tend to."

            "You've got it all wrong. I'm here because I want to see you."

            "Rogue, you and I both know my visits are strictly materialistic."

            "No, my shadow. I care for you... I want to be with you always... The reason I can't stand to wait for you isn't because I need to be somewhere else, but because I need to see you: I long for your return: I need to hold you in my arms."

            He looked at the prostitute. "Rogue, why haven't you told me this before?"

            "B-because I didn't want to seem desperate like Lucy. I see other whores who're turned down for being so easily won. I had to do whatever I could to keep you interested in coming back, you see?"

            "My dear Rogue, could this be true?"

            He took his hands away to hide behind them. "Now I've told you too much."

            "Of course not!" Sting grabbed the prostitute's wrists and looked him in the eye. "You've just told me everything I've ever needed to know. Your work will not go to waste; I dare say we'll continue seeing each other. Our time together will be filled with passion, I will be here for you, I shall offer myself to you, Rogue."

            As the aristocrat kept going, Rogue congratulated himself for turning that around. He almost lost his prime source of income. Then where would he be?

 

            He almost had enough money now to buy his own house. Rogue looked through the papers to find places for sale. Places outside the slum. He didn't want to rent either; he wanted his own house. One he could do with what he wanted.

            He then thought about education. Would it be wise to buy a house first or should be invest in some proper education? Then he could get a better paying job. One that wasn't so tedious as making matchboxes and not so dangerous as the cotton mill. He preferred to do something that didn't involve too much labour, but he didn't see himself ever being so lucky. He would have to make due with whatever he could get.

            Rogue searched the papers for job openings. Things closer to the heart of London and nowhere near the east end. He found calls for waiters, custodians, and desk managers, jobs for the higher of society who kept up appearances. Rogue wondered if he could keep up an appearance. If he could fool people into believing he too was one of the upper class. He supposed if he had the education and housing he would very well be one of the upper class.

            So, he decided he would need an education first, then with the skills he learned he would apply for one of the jobs in central London, and then of course he would need a house nearby. So, depending where he worked he would buy the closest affordable house.

 

            "Ye don't work with oil in that factory, do ye Rogue?" Minerva sat in the chair beside him at the table. "How are ye coming home smelling like oil?"

            Rogue shrugged and continued eating his slice of bread.

            "Maybe it's time ye took interest in a bit of clean water."

            "It was raining the other day."

            "Ye don't smell any better."

            "Fro thinks Rogue smells like a flower." The exceed sat on the table.

            Minerva mocked, "Yeh, like a ripe fly-inviting flower. We may be poor but we're not animals."

            Rogue nodded. It would be better for everyone if he washed up a bit. Especially for the aristocrat, who probably never went a day without bathing in his life.

 

           

            After running some more bread home, Rogue visited the public rinsing spot, which was a pump in the street managed by local constables. Water was recycled through the iron grate below the pump, and limited just a few pumps a person. Soap was supplied, which was convenient because Rogue never invested in any.

            He stripped before the two constables and rinsed himself with as much soap as possible, hoping he could scrub off all the built up layers of grime since his last wash. Others in line watched him with nothing better to do, but this was no time to feel self-conscious: First of all the water was limited, and they were all experiencing the same thing. They were all too poor to own their own plumbing, they all had to strip naked in the street in front of policemen, and they were all just trying to survive. This was what made public rinsing spots a social activity. Mostly just acknowledging that there were others like you, and that you were not alone in wishing there could be more for you and your family.

            It was just a bit of culture. Rogue didn't really care all that much about other people. He knew the only people who truly cared about him were at home, with the exception of Sting who cared about the idea of him.

            Rogue and Sting were strangers. They always would be. No matter how hard the aristocrat loved him, Rogue would never be anything more than an _experience_ to Sting. And no matter how intimate the prostitute became, Sting would always be a source of money to Rogue.

            How did he get to thinking about this? Wasn't he just thinking about public rinses?

            He traced his thoughts back to find how he'd derailed himself. Sting, people caring about him, community, rinses... Yeah, that sounded right. He supposed all these topics were related. Of course his mind would lead him this direction. He thought he'd gone on a tangent just then.

 

            "Ah!" Sting tried to grip the mattress, half his face buried in it.

            "Such a good boy." Rogue pounded into him, holding the aristocrat's hips.

            Sting’s legs trembled against the man, trying to push against Rogue’s thrusts.

“Would you spread your legs wider for me?”

Sting did as he was told, lowering his stomach to the mattress.

The prostitute kept one hand on his client’s back as he leaned forward, balancing his weight as his other hand landed by Sting’s face.

“Ro-Rogue..!”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Yes,” tears and sweat puddled under his face.

“You’ve been waiting for it, haven’t you?”

“Yes!”

“Your body craves it. This hour in which we meet has enslaved you like the oncoming night has the sun.”

Sting panted as the prostitute continued at a slower pace, taking his time to push his client over the edge.

“Are you my dying light, Sting?”

His client grunted with a hard thrust.

“There now…”

Another hard thrust.

“Do you surrender to the dark?”

Yet another hard thrust.

“Sting…”

His client gasped before briefly crying out. A faint sound of ecstasy smothered by the intense sensation by which it was brought.

Rogue carried him through his orgasm, quickly coming inside his client soon after. He’d been holding off for the proper moment, not exactly enjoying this or anything… And with so much experience in the field, Rogue knew just what do do to force himself over.

After a final thrust, Rogue pulled out and left his exhausted client to slump over before him. He then bent over further to reach Sting’s mouth, kissing his client in the same slow manner.

“Rogue,” he moaned between kisses, sucking the prostitute’s lips in return. “Yes, I do surrender… You are the night that swallows me with an embrace I cannot refuse… I long to see you… There isn’t one moment I’m not thinking of you…”

“My dear companion, I too dream of seeing you again the moment we part.”

Sting rolled onto his back to hold the prostitute in his arms. “Please let me stay with you… Please take me from my life… I am yours…”

“We cannot fall prey to our emotions, Sting. You know the two of us will never-“

“Please, Rogue…”

The man’s voice was so sincere in that moment Rogue fell into a state of shock. As if he’d left his body for the purpose of making sense of the matter. It felt as if time had stopped. As if Sting became a mannequin against him, lifeless until the moment Rogue knew what to say next.

What was this feeling? Of course it was a form of love, but what was the meaning of it? Why was Rogue feeling love for this stranger?

Sting was desperate and dull. Not to mention he was a completely different breed of human. His class, education, mannerisms… They were foreign to Rogue’s kind. The two of them would never make sense. They would never be together. So why was Rogue allowing himself to fall in love with the man? He hadn’t felt this way before Sting’s latest remark. Maybe it was the way the man sounded so sincere, so sure of himself and his decision. Sting obviously felt an honest love for Rogue. Perhaps that was why Rogue felt the way he did: Simply because the feeling was being projected onto him.

This was scary. Rogue couldn’t keep Sting. The man would shrivel up and die in the slum life. He needed to get Sting out of there. They shouldn’t see each other any more. Their appointments were becoming more and more informal, and it was uncomfortable.

He didn’t love Sting. This feeling wasn’t love in the sense that he wanted to be with Sting forever. Rather, it was love in the sense that Rogue felt sorry for the man. Sting wanted so much to be with him, but the truth of the matter was that dream would never be anything more than a fantasy. It was regret that Rogue felt… Pity, empathy, sorry for the man…

“Sting, we can’t go on like this.”

“No,” the man held him tighter. “Don’t say things like that…”

“We need to go back to being client and prostitute, nothing more, for your and my sake.”

“I don’t care where the future leads. I want to be here… With you…”

Rogue attempted to pry himself from the aristocrat. “You’re only being dramatic.”

“You’ve put the idea in my head and now it’s stuck: I am your shadow. I am caught beneath you as the night looms overhead. I am the sun that bows to your darkness. I am your shadow. I am yours.”

Rogue finally pulled away and crawled off the mattress. It wasn’t too long after when Sting forced himself to a seated position, still languid from the recent activity.

“Rogue.”

The prostitute started dressing himself.

“I won’t give you your payment until we settle this.”

Rogue stared across the way at his slippery client, half glaring and half scared out of his mind.

“Come here.”

Rogue undressed again and crawled back over to the aristocrat.

“Stay overnight with me, won’t you?”

“I can’t.” He practically begged, “I need to get home.”

“Why won’t you take me? Take me with you.”

Rogue didn’t have to stand for this. Rogue was stronger than the aristocrat. He may not have had any true power over the man, but he was certainly stronger willed. Growing up in the slum wasn’t for pushovers. And he’d encountered meaner guests than Sting. After a quick pep talk, Rogue brought himself back to a state of control over the situation, using talk from passed experiences: smooth and sex-oriented. This whore to client relationship wasn’t about social ranking, or status, or even dominance; it was about sex. It was always about sex. Rogue would direct the conversation back to a topic he knew. He could be just as slippery.

The prostitute whispered in Sting’s face, “I have taken you. Could it be you’d like me to woo you again?”

“As much as I’d like that instead, what I want is to join you in your slums.”

“You’ve already paid for this bed. And it was quite an expense too, wasn’t it? Come, let us hold each other right where we are.”

“Enough,” Sting turned away. “I want a straight answer.”

“What on earth was that, just then?” The prostitute took Sting’s jaw and forced the man to look at him. “For a moment it looked as if my shadow was disobeying me.”

“Oh, stop your babbling! Just stop!” Sting shoved the prostitute off him. “I can’t take your words of poison. You know me too well for a decent conversation. It seems the only way I’m getting to you is through your reward.”

Rogue saw his plan falling apart in front of him.

“That’s it. I’m not paying you this round.”

Sure enough, just like that it was all over. However, now Rogue was angry. He was through putting up with this impossible man.

            The prostitute growled, “You can’t do that! I worked for that money! Have you any idea what my family goes through every day?”

            Sting held his ground nonetheless. “You’re using your family against me? Will you now tell me about yourself, Rogue? I still know next to nothing about you, yet you told me you were my friend. Am I not your friend, my looming night?”

            “Are you mocking me? And after I took time out of my schedule to see you?” Rogue quickly reeled himself in from where he was headed, and instead called upon some old material from an earlier visit: “I care about you, Sting! I care about you more than you know, but your too stupid! You’re just so bloody stupid!”

            “Then take me with you, Rogue! Invite me to your life-“

            “You wouldn’t stand a chance in my life! I won’t bear to think of it! Go home! Go back home to your fancy mansion in the country! Go back to your family!”

            “I can’t breathe!” Sting threw himself onto the mattress, practically onto Rogue’s lap. “This is all to much! It is! Just take me with you! I won’t live another day without your presence throughout it!”

            “You’ve got Lucy, haven’t you? Take her! You don’t need my constant supervision like a damn child.”

            “This can’t be the end! It just can’t! This is entirely your fault, you know!”

            “How in the world is this my fault? You’re the one who won’t leave! Just give me what I worked for!”

            Bounding into the room came Laxus, quite upset with the two of them. “Would you kindly quiet down in here? I’ve received numerous complaints already.”

            The other two shut their mouths in an instant.

            “Do you insist on arguing any further? Would you take it somewhere else?” With that, Laxus left through the door just as quick as he entered.

            Sting sat panting. After a moment or two, he spoke up again. “I want to reward you, believe me, I do.”

            “Then do so!”

            “I can’t! I fear the very moment I hand it over I shan’t see you ever again!”

            “Grow up, Sting!” He waited for the man to quit sobbing before continuing. “We can do this again tomorrow, just as always. Nothing has changed. But if I don’t get paid, how can I trust you as my regular? How do I know you won’t cheat me again the next time?”

            Sting sniffed. “You’re quite right. Just promise me this won’t be our last night.”

            “I promise.”

            Sting stared at the mattress.

            Well, Rogue was glad that was over. He would get another pound, and that would make six in the bank. He could start moving towards his goals.

            “Forgive me. I’m quite distraught with myself…”

            “If I accept your apology, would you quit apologising?”

            “Probably not, to be honest. It would only encourage another.”

            “Then I’ll just tell you straight out: Stop apologising.”

            Sting sniffed. “I truly am sorry. I must learn to strengthen my heart.”

            “What does your family think of all this? Of your emotional status?”

            “I don’t present myself as being particularly emotional. I’m a different man when I’m with you, Rogue. Yes, imagine that. All this time I’ve been completely honest with you. As such, I really do give myself up to you… I do see you as my looming night…”

            Rogue just tried to get out of there as soon as possible. “And you are my shadow.”

 

 

            So then, waiter, custodian, or desk manager? Rogue thought any of these occupations would work well for him. Which one might he be best at? Which one might come most natural to him? He supposed a waiter was right out then, having never been fond of people. Though he was very good with customer service. -As a whore at least. However he doubted his employer would be too happy with him flirting with everyone. Think nothing of beginning to take their clothes off and what have you. Perhaps a desk manager then? There would be a barrier in the way of the customer. It would be much safer. But did Rogue have what it takes to keep track of everything behind a desk? What sort of desk was it? A banker’s? Clerk’s? Hotel’s? The job description varied too much. Suppose there would be enormous amounts of paperwork. Rogue planned on learning how to read more civilised texts anyway, but if the workload were too much he’d find himself overwhelmed. Perhaps a custodian was the way to go. A housekeeper. An on-call floor shiner. A public toilet scrubber. The possibilities were endless, and Rogue wouldn’t be burdened with too having to know too much.

            But would that be enough? Was the job of a custodian really so glamorous as to take Frosch and Rogue from the slum? Where was that newspaper? He would just have to go through it again and do the math.

            Upon returning to his living quarters, Minerva was at the door to greet him. Rather urgently too.

            “Rogue, that man who always comes to see Frosch-“

            A man in a dark uniform came up from behind her. “Step aside please.”

            In fact, there were multiple men standing behind her, all in constable uniforms. The others sharing the living space were all huddled against a far wall, staying out of it.

            Rogue asked, “What’s going on?”

            The first man stood before him. “We’re taking you into custody for grossly neglecting a child.”

            The other men came up to remove Rogue from the room.

            “Where’s Frosch?”

           

            The constables practically dragged Rogue to the police station, where he was fined five pounds for his misconduct. He stayed the night in the department’s custody until his banker could pay the amount in full. Rogue was released without too harsh a punishment as investigators concluded it was no fault of Rogue’s that Frosch’s living conditions were below satisfactory. After speaking with Rogue’s employer they also learned Rogue didn’t earn enough to care for a child in the first place. His bank account was inspected, as the police wondered how he ever acquired so much money working where he did. The bank also expressed their confusion on the matter. Rogue couldn’t tell them the truth; it would cost Laxus his house and income. Instead, he came up with a small lie. Something believable but not too out of the question. Something along the lines of having saved up, and having worked small jobs around the slum off record. It was understood that the man who took Frosch would adopt the exceed, promising a much more suitable life.

            Rogue was left to juggle his emotions: Of course he was scared; he’d never met the man, and now he’d taken Frosch. Where did the man live? Probably not too far if he could walk passed this neighbourhood every day. If he lived close did that mean Frosch was still in the slum? How was that life any better? Rogue was beyond sad as well, as he may never see his dear friend again. Frosch was the only one Rogue truly connected with and felt happy around, and the same went vice versa. They’d both just lost the only family they’d ever known. Okay, think logically. The constables knew the man was far better off than Rogue. At least they trusted he could offer a better life than Rogue could. That must mean the man would give Frosch a better life. Rogue should’ve felt relieved. But the exceed needed someone familiar. His dear friend needed him. Frosch didn’t know that man. How would Frosch ever feel safe again? Where was Frosch? How far away? Why didn’t Minerva try harder to keep Frosch safe from the man? Did she even try? She probably handed Frosch over, knowing there would be fewer mouths to feed. Frosch barely ate at all! How was Frosch a bother to anyone? His dear friend was always very considerate to everyone! Frosch didn’t deserve to be taken away!

           

Rogue stopped going to work after that. Instead he waited outside the building with Minerva as she shined shoes, hoping the man would come back. After some convincing from Minerva, Rogue left the stoop to wander the streets. He wasn’t going back to work like she suggested, Rogue just didn’t want to hang around as long as she was going to pester him about his latest decisions. He would find Frosch. He would bring Frosch home.

 

Rogue searched up and down the slums, sticking to the richer portions if there were such a thing. The areas closer to central London anyway. He waited around places, hoping the man would take a walk… He marched the streets in hope to run into the man… He knocked on doors to find the man’s house… He kept at it for days, hardly sleeping if he did at all. Eventually someone called the constables on him, and Rogue was ordered to return home lest they through him in the workhouse.

 

On his way home he broke down in the street. That man didn’t deserve Frosch, even if he could support the two of them in their richer lifestyle. And it was a richer lifestyle… Should he continue looking for Frosch? Should he trust the man with his dear friend just as the police had? He stared at the cobblestone beneath his knees, hunched over with his arms propped on his legs. He was shaking. He didn’t know what to feel. He just sat there in the street. Where was Frosch? What was Frosch feeling? Was Frosch being treated well? Eating well? Sleeping well? Feeling well? Was the man nice? Respectful? Honest? Patient? Protective? Observant? Of course not! He was none of those things because only Rogue knew how to take care of Frosch! He needed to find Frosch!

 

At night Rogue would sleep on the floor, having missed workdays and so came home empty handed. Even if he had a comfortable place to sleep, he wasn’t sleeping. He was too busy fretting about his dear friend. Struggling with his emotions… Feeling unsure or scared or anxious or trusting… He should trust the man, right? The man would provide for Frosch. At least the exceed would be safe from the slum. But there was more to raising someone than offering them a home: Frosch needed company, a partner, someone to talk to, to share with, to play with… Rogue spun his friendship ring round his finger, trying to send happy messages to his dear friend. Trying to tell Frosch everything would be all right. That he missed Frosch very much, but not to worry about him.

 

Rogue returned to work one day to start a normal life again. Though, by the end of the day, he hadn’t made very many boxes. His workmates tried to cheer him up and understand what was going on. Rogue kept to himself. He didn’t think they’d understand. Erza urged him not to give up, no matter the situation. The thought was nice but Rogue couldn’t see any hope in it.

 

Things continued like this. Rogue would go to work, make a few boxes… Come home and sleep on the floor… He ate very little… He slept very little… People started worrying about him: His boss, his workmates, his living quarter group, Minerva… His mail started piling up. All from the bank. It was a surprise to his living quarter community, as they’d been sheltered from Rogue’s bank account up until now. This, of course, started arguments about whether Rogue was holding out on them. Whether Rogue could’ve been keeping them out of debt, or helping them pay for rent at all. Rogue wasn’t in the mood to explain. Instead, he took their threats, their beats, their invasions… They actually began opening his letters for him, finding he had one pound in his account. This made them furious, and they were even more adamant about getting the money out of him. Rogue wouldn’t have it. He just took everything they had to offer.

 

Eventually, Rogue lost his job. At that point, the living quarter community couldn’t support all of them and so kicked him out, as he had nothing left he was willing to offer. From then on he slept on the spiral stair outside the room. Each day his old living quarter group climbed up and down that stair, on their way to work or just coming home. They looked at him as if he were a stain on the metal steps, or not at all. Minerva couldn’t look at him from the start. It hurt her too much to see where he’d ended up.

 

With his last pound, Rogue did what every other homeless idiot in the slum did: Waste his savings on alcohol to relieve himself of his pain. However, he’d never drunk before. So each morning he was greeted with nausea and aches and pains… Not like those he felt when thinking of Frosch though… These pains he felt each morning were far more tolerable… Rogue kept getting drunk. Every night. Anything to exchange one pain for another. People on the streets would mock him, or taunt him, or try to insist themselves on him. But Rogue didn’t care. He couldn’t tell, but he still had enough sense to recognise he could no longer think straight.

 

One night he got to thinking… How so many people thought they were better off than him… How some people simply got to do whatever they wanted… There was no law for these people… No punishment… No sense of morality… Some people could get away with murder, never to be caught. Only their latest scandal glorified in the newspaper… Rogue was just a homeless nobody. He didn’t have family… No friends… Nowhere to go… No money… No future… Rogue was living under those other people. Under everybody, actually: Rogue was the lowest scum in London. There was no social rank for his kind, and he was the only one. Someone like Rogue was subject to all the punishment… All the neglect… All the realities of life… Rogue could never get away with anything.

That’s what they think.

A lonely woman on her way home from some nightly business trotted down the pavement in her smelly dress. Such a humble young thing. What on earth was she doing out so late? Someone could really do some damage to that dress of hers.

Rogue neared the woman, startling her as she took steps away from him. He beckoned her closer with timid sweet talk, a little bit of whore still awake somewhere in his forsaken veins. She let her guard down enough that Rogue bashed her over the head with a bottle, beating her again and again until she stopped moving. He quickly made his getaway, storing the weapon on his person as he headed home for the night.

            This became a pattern, as Rogue found a new way of release murdering strays on the street. It was he and the other mystery murderer battling for the headline. Rogue imagined what the other murderer must’ve felt, knowing there was now competition in this sport. He imagined what the murderer would do if he ever spotted Rogue stealing the spotlight. What did the murderer look like? What were the murderer’s tactics? Would they ever meet? Soon enough, Rogue could look at what he’d done in the papers. He was Tricky-Cagey, the man who numbed his victims, offered them a false sense of security. The man who rivalled Jack the Ripper, the two of them obliterating East End. He could be proud of himself for once... He could walk the streets as he pleased... He was feared… He was powerful… And nobody knew it was he who was causing all this terror.

 

            This pattern was fun. Men even claimed to be him for publicity. They wrote threats to the police, to banks, to anyone they wished to steal from or control. Men walked the streets in elaborate costumes to try and fool constables and city folk. Everybody wanted to be Tricky-Cagey. But the fun didn’t last. The attention was fulfilling… so was the adrenaline of a kill… until nothing else became of his reign. The police department was still on the search, but no one really missed any of these murdered people. After all, they were all slum dwellers. Immigrants… Refuging Jews… They were only a thin line away from Rogue’s status as a nobody. At least they all had employers. Tricky-Cagey became white noise to Rogue. The fact that his life became another pattern made his life normal again. From work to the whorehouse to home to work… It was no different from a kill to a headline to the appearance of a new con artist to another search for the true murderer… His life had become another schedule, and Rogue couldn’t stand how he could just wake up and get to work as if sneaking around at night were second nature. It was too easy now. It gave him too much time to think of Frosch. He needed to get out. Out of this pattern. Out of this pattern of falling into more patterns.

            Wandering the streets of London again, this time without purpose, Rogue began to consider the workhouse. They would offer him food and shelter. It would give him something to do if nothing else. In any case, he was almost broke again. He didn’t even have enough to keep his bank account open. He carried what remained of his savings in his pocket. It wasn’t enough to buy alcohol. It wasn’t enough to buy bread. He should really start living in the workhouse. But he hated the thought. Those places were worse than prison. What made him think he would be better off there? But he couldn’t wander the streets until he starved to death. Someone would find him before then anyway, but really, this was no way to live.

            No matter how hard he tried to convince himself, he couldn’t sign up for the workhouse. He couldn’t get himself to stop wandering. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t.

            The moon spun over him, running from the sun, which ran from the moon, which ran from the sun… Before he knew it, he’d passed out on the cobblestone.

 

            He awoke to a familiar face. Two familiar faces.

            Sting and Lucy stared down at him, looking as if they were watching him disintegrate before their eyes. They had him taken to the nearest hospital where they nursed him back to a clear-thinking head. Sting covered the expenses and relocated their group to his hotel in central London. Lucy had her own room, Rogue came to find out, as she and Sting had started living together after Rogue disappeared. Go figure. The man was too needy for his own good. Apparently, Rogue fainted near a park where the two of them took daily walks. It was lucky, otherwise Rogue would’ve been found by someone much less tolerant of strays. After taking his very first bath in the lavatory, hot water and soap and all, the three of them got together to talk about Rogue’s wellbeing. Rogue kept to himself about everything preceding his and Sting’s most recent visit. The others insisted and begged but Rogue said nothing. Sting invited Rogue to sleep with him, but the stray declined. Lucy then invited him to sleep with her. After some brainstorming, the two decided they’d sleep together and give Rogue his own bed. It was a miracle those two were still breathing, they were so dumb.

            Rogue put on a bed robe as Sting instructed. Apparently, it was unsightly to put on the same outfit after bathing. Lucy even had her own clothes that she’d been sleeping in. Sting promised to buy Rogue a few outfits as well, if he liked. Everything was very overwhelming at the moment. Rogue slept in the main room where Sting usually slept, unable to close his eyes, still too much on his mind. Anyway, the bed was too soft. He wasn’t used to the feeling. It was like the mattress was trying to drown him. He stared ahead at the cabinet across the room.

            Where was Frosch?

            Oh, God, where was Frosch?

            He covered his friendship ring with his other hand, holding both hands to his chest. He told his dear friend, via old bed string, not to worry. That he was safe. That Frosch was safe. They would meet again one day.

            Tears fell from Rogue’s eyes at the thought. It wasn’t true. They would life their own lives from here on out. There was no way Frosch would find his way back to Rogue. Not now. Now that Rogue couldn’t afford to stay in their old house. He needed to get back to the building. He needed to continue sleeping on the stair. He would wait until Frosch found the way back home.

            Rogue sat up and went to retrieve his clothes. The lavatory was between the two rooms. So upon leaving, clad in his slum attire, Lucy stopped him from her perch on the guest bed.

            “Are you going somewhere?”

            Rogue turned round to find Lucy seated beside the aristocrat. She stroked the man’s hair as he slept.

            “You’re not leaving, are you? This isn’t Laxus’s house, you know.”

            Rogue slowly turned away from her, keeping his eyes on the floor.

            She got up from the bed and walked closer to Rogue. She didn’t stop until she was right behind him. “Are you going back?”

            He couldn’t think of what to say.

            “Sting’s happy you’re here. He cherishes you. It frightened him to find you the way you were.”

            Rogue murmured, “I’m no like you.”

            She shifted her wait, uneasy by his remark.

            “I don’t fall in love with people I’ve just met. I’ve got more common sense than that.”

            “I didn’t just meet him. Sting is my friend.”

            “Do you know anything about him? Where he comes from? Who he is?”

            Lucy remained quiet.

            “You think you’re in love, Lucy? You don’t know him. You and Sting are nothing alike. You’ll never understand each other. There’s a cultural barrier.”

            “Well, how much do you know about Sting?”

            He said nothing.

            “Do you know he’s caring? Sensitive? Passionate? He wouldn’t use us and throw us out. He’s different from other clients.”

            Rogue began to say something but Lucy cut him off:

            “In fact, he’s not a client at all. He’s a person, like you and I. One doesn’t pay another to do what Sting does naturally. One doesn’t pay another to offer their bed. One doesn’t pay another to take them off the street. Or go on walks everyday. Or tell you how special you are. Or recite poetry to you.”

            Rogue glanced up at the door. He could just walk out if he wanted.

            “He won’t disappear the next day. Sting is a real, tangible, breathing person.”

            Rogue stepped towards the door.

            “And he’s here for you.”

            Well, Rogue didn’t care. He wasn’t going to be fooled into loving someone he didn’t know. He had things to do. He wasn’t looking for someone to love him. He wasn’t desperate. He didn’t care bout Sting, or Lucy. He had to go back home. He had to wait for Frosch. He had to get Frosch back.

Every step was heavier as he explored these feelings, these deep concepts he didn’t like to dwell upon too much. They hurt. They were covered in sorrow, dripping with frustration. The more he thought about what he’d lost, and only in a matter of days, the angrier he became. He’d spent all his money freeing himself from prison, paying for a crime he never committed. He’d lost Frosch to some richer man who Rogue had initially believed to be a lowly jerk. Was the man actually a jerk? Could rich people afford to be jerks? He supposed so. Did that mean Frosch was living with a big stupid jerk? How was that any more satisfactory than living in the slum? Answer Rogue that, Police Inspectors! He needed Frosch back! Stupid Lucy, staying up late to pet her new boyfriend. Why did she care if Rogue was leaving? He thought she’d want Sting all to herself. This was all Sting’s fault! If he hadn’t have given Rogue so much money, Rogue never would’ve kept returning to Laxus’s house! And Frosch would’ve spent those shoe-shining hours inside with him, away from lowly rich jerks. This was all Sting’s fault!

Rogue stopped before the door, suddenly at a loss of what to. Like he’d forgotten where he was, lost in his head, in the mirror of a nightmare… Tears fell from his eyes, running down his face and off his neck. After a few moments of silence, Rogue grunted through all his pent up stress, turning his head down to weep loudly at his feet. He couldn’t keep it in. He couldn’t stay quiet. His emotions came flooding out and there was no stopping them. Lucy hurried to his aide, taking his arm and turning him to face her. After a slight moment of standing there, Lucy gained enough confidence to hug him.

“I know we’re not the best of friends, but I understand what you’re feeling. Please share your story with me.”

Rogue tried a rebuttal but he couldn’t get himself to speak. He wanted very much just to scream _This isn’t about being a whore and having found true love!_ Or even _Would you stay out of my goddamn business?_ It was hopeless. The two of them would just have to continue holding each other until Rogue stopped crying.

“T-to be honest… I’m not born from the slum.”

Rogue kept weeping, now on Lucy’s low shoulder.

“I was an aristocrat like Sting. I fell into debt after my father passed away. I worked very hard among my social circle to try and bring some money back into my estate, but it was no use. Without a suitor, I was never able to repay my debt. I moved to the east end of London after that.”

Her story passed the time at least. Rogue could take a deep breath again. He felt silly bothering Lucy with his tantrum. Now he was caught in her embrace, listening to another aristocrat tale.

“It was quite difficult learning to behave and speak like other slum dwellers. But I believe everything turned out.”

Rogue sniffed, staring at the door. Not in longing, rather because it was right in front of him.

“Would you tell me your story?”

 

 

The next morning all three of them gathered in Lucy’s room for a talk. They finally got Rogue’s story out of him, everything up until he started losing his sense of morality, and because it was so unbelievably heart breaking, the other two began scheming their next move. Rogue was still on about leaving to go back home, but Sting talked him out of it.

“It would be impossible for Frosch to simply walk out of that man’s house. If he’s rich enough to meet satisfactory expectations, Frosch would be under a nursemaid’s constant supervision.”

Lucy added, “But if the man has a house close to the slums it’s likely he can’t afford a nursemaid. Frosch would still be under the care of someone working from home, however.”

Rogue sat with his legs crossed on the bed, watching the others talk. Sting and Lucy were sitting that way as well, the three of them forming a circle.

“The matter would have yet to be resolved if you returned home.” Sting looked at him. “If you so choose, I can accompany you to the police department and request to see the man who took Frosch. I can adopt your friend from the man. They’ll allow me to take Frosch, my estate is well over satisfactory.”

Lucy gasped as she gave Sting her grandest smile, putting a hand on his thigh after hearing the fantastic news.

Sting went on, “You and Frosch can live with me.”

Rogue stared back at the man. What was Sting doing? Why was he offering so much? Was he really so stupid as to take Rogue and Frosch off the streets? Sting hardly knew them. What made this man so desperate? Rogue began thinking the situation through. He and Frosch would never go hungry again... They could sleep on a bed without the fear of losing it to a sleeping quarter member who made more money that day… They wouldn’t have to work all day for cheap… They could be together on an estate, where Frosch could run and sing and jump and play and anything! Frosch could be happy, free, away from danger!

“Lucy, can you just imagine how much fun we’ll have? You and Rogue living with me on my estate!”

Just like that, Rogue’s vision of happiness plummeted from existence. Lucy already agreed? He asked Lucy already? Rogue was going to have to put up with living with Lucy? Well, depending on how big Sting’s estate was, Rogue could always sleep in a separate room. Heck, depending on how big Sting’s estate was, Rogue could sleep in a separate house on a separate hill. He would never have to see either of them again if he didn’t want to.

“Rogue, my dear.” Sting reached over and took the man’s hands. “Would you like to come live with Lucy and me?”

She and Sting both smiled at him with pure desire in their eyes. Rogue waited for them to stop, hoping they’d give up or grow tired, but they never did. It was like they were frozen in place. It was uncomfortable. It was quite uncomfortable. Should he reel the situation in and say something sex-related again? Something familiar. Something to fall back on.

“I…” he said, “I can’t answer right now.”

“Oh, of course.” Sting removed his hands. “Take as much time as you need. In any case, shall we find Frosch?”

Rogue couldn’t believe anything to be so easy. Something would definitely go wrong… Someone would definitely going to pay… His entire life had been hardship after hardship. There was just no way this would happen for him. Not so easily.

 

At the police department, Rogue stood behind the other two as they spoke with the men behind the counter. He didn’t belong there. His kind couldn’t afford to complain. They were meant to fend for themselves, of course. Sting and Lucy demanded to see the man who took Frosch however, much more comfortable in the likes of authority. The policemen searched their files, locating the proper directory for all the banks located around where the man might live. The police didn’t know the man, only that he had an account with a specific bank. They were trying to send Sting to the man’s banker, hoping to find the man’s name that way. And in turn, find the man’s house to rescue Frosch.

After some additional conversing, Sting led his group to a taxi outside. They all got in the buggy and road it through the central London streets to the east end. Assuming this man lived near the slum, there was only one bank located in that area. So, this wouldn’t be too much of a goose chase. Sting then, took his group inside the building and went straight to the counter. Lucy followed close behind, but Rogue was sort of dragged along. He didn’t want to face another banker. Even if it was a different bank. He didn’t belong there. He just didn’t. There were things certain people couldn’t do, but the other two would never understand.

Sting asked whether there was an account owned by a man with a newly adopted child. Lucky enough, one of the bankers answered his call and beckoned them over. Sting took his group to this banker and they conversed. The man’s name was Mr Smyth, and he lived just outside the slum. Sting asked for the man address, and the banker thought the aristocrat blueblood enough to trust him. He wrote the address down and offered the note to Sting, who took it and led his group back in the taxi. Rogue couldn’t believe how easy this all was. Their luck would drain out soon enough though. He could feel it. They took the buggy back into central London, keeping round the outskirts in search of Mr Smyth’s building. Lucy spotted the man’s apartment number and they all hurried out to his front door.

Rogue was anxious to finally see the jerk who tormented Frosch, the man who was gutsy enough to show up at Rogue’s living quarters everyday and poke fun at beggars. What did this man look like? Was he everything he led Rogue to believe? After everything he forced Rogue to go through, the man better at least be rich…

Sting knocked on the door and they waited for someone to answer. This better be the right house. What if they had to start their search all over again? What if there were multiple men with newly adopted children with the same bank?

A young woman greeted them at the door. “Yes, sir?”

“I request to speak with the master of this household.”

The woman closed the door again and scuttled off.

Lucy turned to Rogue with a look of determination. For once he didn’t feel annoyed with her. Actually, given the circumstances, it was comforting.

After time, the woman came back with an older man. This man looked Sting up and down before asking:

“Yes, sir?”

“I presume you are the master of the household?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sting went on, “I’ve come to hear of your latest adoption. May I see the child?”

“Whatever for, sir?”

“It has been brought to my attention that your child may be of great interest to me. Are you not Mr Smyth?”

“I am, sir.”

“Bring me your child. I wish to remove it from your possession if I find anything off with it or your relation with it.”

The man looked Sting up and down once more before calling someone to the door. Another young woman walked over to the sound of her name. This woman was carrying Frosch close to her chest.

Rogue shouted, “Frosch!”

Sting held an arm out to stop his friend from doing anything stupid. “Mr Smyth, I believe you’ve taken custody of this child from my friend Rogue under gross neglect. Am I correct in believing this?”

“That’s true, sir.”

“I now wish to take custody of this child from you under neglect.”

“That’s preposterous.” Said Mr Smyth, “I’ve not neglected my child. You can see for yourself, it sleeps peacefully in the arms of my daughter.”

Rogue spoke up, “Frosch isn’t sleeping!”

Mr Smyth looked at the dark haired stray in shock. As if he couldn’t believe a slum dweller would speak up to him like that.

“Rogue,” warned the aristocrat.

“Frosch isn’t sleeping! Frosch is paralysed!”

Lucy tried to calm him down, holding his arm and saying his name.

Sting looked to Mr Smyth. “Is it true? Is the child paralysed?”

“Heavens, no!” He ordered the young woman to show the group outside the door.

She was reluctant at first, but she obeyed the man. She must’ve been his daughter or something. As she came closer Rogue could see his dear friend was slumped over against her, head buried in the woman’s blouse. The exceed was lifeless and floppy like a bag of potatoes. Something was wrong. That was not the Frosch Rogue knew.

“Frosch!” He tried to grab for his dear friend but the woman pulled away. Her father stepped between them, as well. And if that weren’t enough, Sting put a hand on Rogue’s chest while Lucy had Rogue’s arm. The amount of effort that went in to stopping the two from reuniting was insulting. As if Rogue was a beast after fresh blood. He supposed he should just leave this to the professionals. He cowered to the back where he couldn’t see Mr Smyth or his daughter.

Sting remained collected. “As you can plainly see, you’ve distressed my friend. He who raised Frosch would know the child’s condition best. You understand, don’t you?”

Mr Smyth argued, “Certainly not! That scum abused my child. It was all I could do to remove the poor thing from that beast.”

Rogue took additional steps back, trying not to get too riled up. He trusted the aristocrat would get Frosch out of this man’s possession. Anyway, getting angry wouldn’t solve anything. He was already a barbarian in the eyes of Mr Smyth and daughter. Rogue didn’t need to make it worse.

“I too recognise the child’s behaviour is unnatural.” Sting tilted his head as if to question the man’s suspicion of him. “What ever are you up to in this house?”

“Sir, if you please, believe me when I say we have been nothing if not loving to our child.”

“Very well, our ideas of love are quite different, aren’t they?”

His daughter turned her body so as to hide Frosch from sight. “Please. Please, don’t take our child.”

Sting went on, “It is my moral obligation to expel Frosch from this house. The actions taken to result with Frosch’s condition were of the inexperienced sort. To leave the child in your care would be criminal of me.”

“No,” the daughter cried under her breath as she moved farther inside her house.

Rogue just wanted this to be over already.

“I do hope you learn to forgive me, but the child must come away from you at once.”

Mr Smyth gestured for his daughter to come back to the door. She was slow, but eventually she brought Frosch into the light again, and Sting was able to reach out and take the Exceed from her trembling clutches. It was awfully slow. Rogue could’ve made one hundred matchboxes in that time. But Frosch was out of the man’s apartment. That was all that mattered.

“I trust you,” Mr Smyth said, “to keep this poor child away from that filth.” He turned a foul glare on Rogue.

“You’re absolutely entitled to do so.” The aristocrat turned form the apartment and led his group down to the street once again, where he passed Frosch off to Rogue.

“Frosch,” the prostitute held his dear friend in his arms, stressing the exceed’s name in a low moan, overcome by gratitude. “Sting,” he leaned into the aristocrat, wrapping an arm round him, Frosch nestled between their bodies.

 

Sting spent the next few days legally adopting Frosch and changing Rogue and Lucy’s address. In the meantime, the prostitutes lazed about Sting’s apartment. They dressed themselves in their new clothes that Sting had bought them. Rogue still having to ask Lucy which layers went on first. He couldn’t believe how many details went into aristocrat attire. It reminded him of the first time he undressed Sting. Frosch had some new clothes too, of course. Sting was quite fond of Frosch compared to everyone in the slums. Rogue never knew anyone to love an exceed so much. Sting seemed to love Frosch just as much as Rogue. He treated Frosch as part of the family rather than a waste of space. It felt unnatural, but refreshing.

Lucy smiled at herself in the mirror, toying with the trimming on her chest. She must’ve been thinking back on her aristocrat days. Remembering how she looked, how lucky she was, how proper she could be…

Being an aristocrat must’ve been quite an honour. Rogue should be much more grateful. He’d never been so lucky. If it weren’t for Sting, Rogue and Frosch would’ve died in the city. Frosch would be living with that evil man. Rogue would end up in the workhouse or in prison. It was a miracle that they’d met Sting. Rogue should definitely be more grateful. He would be sure to thank Sting properly. Not that he could ever return the favour. Rogue would just heave to repay the aristocrat any way he could, with devotion and respect and all that emotional stuff.

“Fro loves Rogue.”

He stopped pretending like he could fasten his bowtie and looked down at his dear friend, who stood up on the bed. “I love you Frosch.”

The exceed came closer in a miniature evening suit and walked into Rogue’s open arms. As they hugged, Sting entered the apartment from behind.

“Are we ready?”

Lucy left her beloved mirror for the door, walking through Rogue’s room. “I believe so!”

Frosch pawed Rogue to be lifted off the bed, and Rogue placed his dear friend on a shoulder.

Sting looked everybody over, making sure they were dressed properly, and spotted Rogue’s bowtie. He reached out and fastened it, then tugged on each end to straighten it on Rogue’s collar. “There we are. Let us be off!”

 

The four of them sat round a table at the back of a dark restaurant. They always dined out, for every meal of every day. It was quite strange. This couldn’t be happening. Rogue would wake up one day and be back in the slums. This was all a fantasy. It wasn’t happening. It wasn’t.

Sting went on about his house and what each of them would like about it. “Lucy, I have the most beautiful garden.”

“Ohh,” she said as she leaned into the table.

They sat round the table like they did on the hotel bed.

Sting continued, “At night we could walk out into the hills and watch the stars. They’re so bright out in the countryside.”

He could’ve said anything and Lucy would manage to smile bigger. They were gross together. Why couldn’t they get married and leave Rogue out of it? All he needed was an education and a job to live his own life.

“Lucy, which constellation is your favourite?”

“Oh, I can’t decide on something like that. They’re all special to me.”

Sting rested his chin in his hand. “That’s just the way I feel about the both of you.”

Rogue took his glove off to get the rest of the sauce off his plate. He found he really liked pasta. It always filled him right up, and the sauce was so creamy.

“You know,” continued Sting, “You remind me so much of my dear wife, Yukino. She loves to take a stroll through the park.”

Rogue flicked his eyes at Lucy to watch her smile slowly deflate.

“She could never choose a constellation either. But, really, she loves just to be outside, among the trees and insects and breeze...”

Lucy’s lip went flat as she turned to stare down at her untouched food. Her hands folded in her lap as she leaned away from the table, positioning herself back to a straight posture.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, what do you know, another unfinished chapter!  
> I'm really trying... I can't get myself to write but the ideas are there.
> 
> Thanks for hanging in there with me!  
> More to come!


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